


O Little Town of Swindon

by sburbanite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Archangel shenanigans, Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: Traitor PrincipalityAziraphale,You are cordiallysummonedinvited to the inaugural Heavenly Christmas event!!! Featuring special guest Jesus Christ in his first public appearance in almost two thousand years!!! Be there or be sorry!!!~ Archangel Gabriel ~DIRECTIONS:Please follow the star, which will lead you to the event. Attempts to tamper with the star will lead to deployment of Black Hole™anti-tamper measures. Attendance is mandatory. Don't even think of trying to get out of it, sunshine.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 181
Kudos: 404
Collections: An Ineffable Holiday 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mostlyharmless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyharmless/gifts).



Crowley was thankful for his sunglasses when he stepped out of the freezing December rain and into the warmth of the bookshop, with a bottle of wine under one arm and the intent to get Aziraphale gloriously drunk until the sun came up on the first Christmas day since the apocalypse-that-wasn't, because there was a tiny fucking sun burning merrily in the shop's central dome. It was hovering about fifteen feet off the ground and was making the whole place uncomfortably warm. Aziraphale sat miserably underneath it, wearing a tartan sun visor he bought back in the 1950s. He was already beginning to tan.

"What in Heaven is that thing?" said Crowley, squinting in the glare.

Even through his sunglasses the little sun was bright. Bright enough to turn his vision into a disco dance of afterimages. He stopped trying to look at it and focused on the angel instead.

"It's a star, I'm afraid," said Aziraphale, and waved a piece of shiny cardboard in Crowley's direction. He took it, hissing a little as the holy material of it came in contact with his fingertips. There was a nativity scene on the front of the card; Wise men, a slightly wooden looking Mary and Joseph, a variety of superfluous animals. The only odd thing was that instead of a baby in the manger, there was a smiling adult man who Crowley had last seen being nailed to a big wooden cross. No one had been smiling back then.

"Heaven sent you a Christmas card and a star? Don't they know you're meant to get the tree first?"

"Turn it over," said Aziraphale, slumping forward with his head in his hands.

Crowley flipped the card over, read it, and groaned. On the reverse, written in aggressively glittery golden ink, was an invitation. In several places, the printed words had been scribbled out and annotated in violet pen:

~~Traitor Principality~~ Aziraphale,

You are cordially ~~summoned~~ invited to the inaugural Heavenly Christmas event!!! Featuring special guest Jesus Christ in his first public appearance in almost two thousand years!!! Be there or be sorry!!!

~ Archangel Gabriel ~

DIRECTIONS:

Please follow the star, which will lead you to the event. Attempts to tamper with the star will lead to deployment of Black Hole™ anti-tamper measures. Attendance is mandatory. Don't even think of trying to get out of it, sunshine.

"Fucking archangels," muttered Crowley.

Aziraphale pretended not to hear him.

"What am I going to do, Crowley?" Aziraphale whined. "Heaven doesn't even approve of Christmas! They sent a very derogatory memo about it after it started to catch on! Said it was just an excuse the Romans concocted to get drunk and stuff themselves silly!"

Which was largely the truth, if Crowley remembered correctly. Saturnalia had been one of his favourite festivals; full of excess and lust and all the really good sins. Typical Roman stuff. He'd always had a sneaking suspicion that the idea to co-opt it for Christianity had been down to some angelic whispers in good old Constantine's ear.

Crowley hissed under his breath as the light from the star insinuated itself around the edges of his glasses and reminded him rather effectively about the problem at hand.

"I dunno about you, but I can't hear myself think over that thing...doing that." He waved a hand at the sun, which wasn't making any noise but still somehow managed to have the sensory impact of a low-flying Boeing 747. "Maybe _it_ has to stay here but we sure as Heaven don't."

"I'm afraid if I leave it'll just follow me," said Aziraphale.

He sighed in that put-upon way of his, the one that made Crowley's insides go a bit wobbly.

"Nah, it won't," said Crowley, hoping fervently that he was right, "you follow it, it doesn't follow you. It's not a dog. Although there is a dog star. Sirius A, big blue bugger." Crowley frowned. "Don't think we'd be in a position to worry if it was that one, on account of being deep-fried in superheated plasma."

Aziraphale stood and took a few steps toward the coat rack, wringing his hands without seeming to realize he was doing it. He stopped, looked at the door, and then looked at the star again. Finally, he swallowed and looked at Crowley, who'd gotten rather used to these types of dithering episodes and tried to look as encouraging as possible.

"It'll be alright, angel," he soothed, "it can't really be physically here, otherwise it'd have boiled us alive or sucked everything into orbit around it. S'just a fancy projection, that's all. It's not going to burn your shop down."

"Alright, if you say so, my dear."

With the angel finally wrapped up in his coat, hat, gloves and scarf -- Crowley drew the line at letting him rummage around in the backroom for his Wellington boots, they were supernatural entities, for Hell's sake, if they didn't want wet feet they didn't have to bloody have them -- they retired to the café across the street.

"Blimey, Mr. Fell! Is that a new Christmas decoration?" asked the woman behind the counter as she put an extra earl grey teabag in Aziraphale's pot just the way he liked it. "It's very, um. Bright. Don't people usually have lots of little lights rather than one big one?"

"Thank you, Mary, dear. It's, well. I thought I'd get a star for the Christmas tree, you see. I may have gone a little bit overboard."

The woman -- Mary, apparently -- laughed and made a comment about the size of the angel's electricity bill. She had no way of knowing the angel's electricity bill had been precisely zero since the bookshop was first connected in 1911, when the meter in Aziraphale's understairs cupboard had completed a single, leisurely rotation and then ground to a halt forever. It wasn't as though the shop ran on stolen electricity, of course; the appliances and lights worked simply because he expected them to. Unlike Crowley, he did at least remember to plug them in.

Crowley took the tray with Aziraphale's tea, biscuits and a slice of cake, along with his own coffee, and found a table by the window. Through it he could see the shop windows blazing away: a great gaudy eyesore amongst the little twinkling strands of fairy lights on the neighbouring buildings. As he watched, he was sure he saw the bloody thing get brighter.

"Oh dear," murmured Aziraphale as he slid into the seat opposite, "not exactly subtle, is it? At this rate I'll get _complaints_ , and to think I've had such a lovely relationship with my fellow proprietors until now."

Crowley wrinkled his nose.

"I'm sorry, you've had a _lovely relationship_ with a sex-shop owner and a bloke who runs a fleet of illegal minicabs?"

Aziraphale ignored the remark and tucked into his cake, albeit with much less than his usual gusto. It was sad to see the angel reduced to picking at his food, especially a slice of lemon drizzle cake the approximate size and shape of a half-brick.

"Do you think it'll go away if I just...don't acknowledge it?" asked Aziraphale, pretending hopefulness.

On the other side of the road, the bookshop became ever-so-slightly more luminous. Crowley hissed through his teeth.

"Doubt it. Nobody in Soho's going to get any sleep tonight, that's for sure." Crowley paused to consider the kind of people who lived and worked in Soho. "Well. Even If they wanted to. It'll ruin the ambience, at any rate."

With a clink, Aziraphale set his fork down next to his half-eaten cake. The biscuits hadn't even been touched. In all the days since the world hadn't ended, this was the most dejected Crowley had seen him. Well, almost. The day after their dinner at the Ritz, Aziraphale had locked himself away in his bookshop and had looked decidedly teary-eyed when Crowley had popped over with some of the angel's favourite pastries, only to be turned away at the door. Feeling under the weather, he'd said, whatever that meant for an angel, so Crowley had driven his newly restored car far, far too fast back to his Mayfair flat and spent the rest of the day reminding his plants that while Armageddon might have been averted in a general sense, it certainly wasn't off the table for them.

The day after the _day after_ , when Crowley had cautiously knocked on the shop door, dreading what might open it, Aziraphale had seemed fine again; all bright smiles and tartan and sparkling eyes, so he hadn't pushed. He'd spent months not pushing, even when, every so often, Aziraphale's eyes crinkled at the edges with something soft and sad, and he stared unseeing into the middle distance. 

It was worrying, but they'd been through a lot. Aziraphale had a nasty habit of going on the defensive when questioned about his behaviour, and Crowley knew if he made an issue of the little silent moments of pain, he'd never get the chance to see one again. The angel would fuss and bluster and pack his emotions away in a tight little box where Crowley couldn't see them. Before, he'd have had the time and tenacity to winkle out the answer, slowly chipping away at Aziraphale's angelic stiff upper-lip until he finally broke down and admitted what was wrong. But not now, not anymore.

Crowley couldn't risk a fight now. No raging arguments or ten-year silences or century-long angry naps. Not when all they had was each other. He'd just have to wait. Aziraphale would tell him eventually. He believed it, had to believe it. For one of the damned, Crowley had astounding reserves of faith.

"I'm sorry, I'm not really hungry."

"You sure? It looks nice. Sticky. You like sticky things, unless they're trying to touch your books."

The angel shook his head and pushed the plate toward him.

"No, no, you can finish it if you like, my dear."

"Angel. We'll sort it all out, I promise." Crowley smiled: a big, flashing grin that was gone as quick as it appeared. "It's Heaven. They're idiots, remember? We'll figure it out, eat your cake."

"Crowley, they're dangerous!" Aziraphale whispered, as if Gabriel might somehow overhear. "They tried to have me executed!"

"Tried, failed. We're on our side, angel. If they're forcing you to attend some sort of godforsaken Christmas party, they're going to get a nasty lump of demon in their stocking."

"Our side, yes. Of course," said Aziraphale softly, "but I can't put you in danger, Crowley. They could…well, we both know what they could do."

Over the years, Aziraphale had said it dozens of times. They could destroy you! Not once in six thousand years had he worried for his own safety. And yes, Crowley would be the first to admit that the angel had been extremely naiive regarding Heaven's ruthlessness, but no longer. Now they both knew that Aziraphale meant as much to them as a grease stain on a pristine white shirt, and he was still thinking of Crowley's safety. It was enough to make a demon blush, if demons ever did things like that.

It was a lot. Crowley swallowed.

"You're not putting me in danger, I'm doing it myself. And you can't stop me, so there."

Aziraphale looked at him askance, one eyebrow raised.

"My, how bullheaded of you. Going to stick out your tongue as well?"

Crowley did, and wiggled it. A bit predictable, playing to the crowd and all, but worth it to see the angel smile.

"After six thousand years have you really not figured out you aren't getting rid of me?" said Crowley, swiping one of the unattended biscuits.

Aziraphale had the nerve to look affronted and pulled the remaining treats out of demon range.

"That's all very well, but what do you propose we do about that," said Aziraphale, gesturing to the glow across the street. It was beginning to be painful to look at directly, even through sunglasses.

It was bright enough to make Crowley blink, which meant two blinks in one day. Practically a record.

"Follow it, I reckon." Crowley shrugged. "It's Christmas Eve, safe to say it won't be going anywhere till tomorrow morning at the earliest. Half of Soho'll need new retinas by then. I dunno about you, but I don't much fancy spending Christmas Day doing miraculous eye surgeries when I could just tell Gabriel to shove an entire tree up his arse instead, baubles included."

"Crowley!"

The warm look of righteous mock-offense Aziraphale shot him over the rim of his teacup was perfection: all wide eyes with little crinkles at the edges. Crowley knew he'd won when the angel dropped all pretence of cultured manners and dunked a biscuit in his tea.

"Alright, my dear. So we follow it. Then what?"  
"Tell em' to fuck off." Crowley remembered the smiling face on the card; too many teeth showing, lips drawn back too tight. "Possibly rescue poor old JC if they're forcing him to participate in their bullshit."

Aziraphale winced.

"Yes. I suppose it's the least we can do after last time."

Their next move decided, Crowley sat back in his chair and waited for Aziraphale, whose appetite seemed to have miraculously improved, to finish eating. He wondered idly what the angel normally did for Christmas, if anything. Humans certainly seemed to enjoy it, after all; all that eating and drinking and being merry. It ought to be right up Aziraphale's alley, but he couldn't recall ever seeing so much as a scrap of tinsel adorning the bookshop. The angel had gone all-in on Saturnalia way back when, had even been crowned the winter king in laurel leaves one year, parading around Rome dishing out drunken minor miracles and sloppy cheek kisses. Crowley remembered drinking him under the table in a stuffy Danish longhouse at Midvinterblot; watching angelic eyes sparkle in the candlelight as a human boy read poetry for Shab-e Yalda; lighting a Menorah candle with him in a crowded little house in the Jewish quarter of Prague as a pogrom raged outside.

" _The light is hope, dear boy, in the darkest of times,_ " the angel had whispered reverently.

Light in the darkness, in the heart of winter. That was Aziraphale, he thought to himself, a steady flame for when all others went out. When had he come to crave it so much that he couldn't live without it?  
The angel in question was licking the last of the lemon sauce off his cake fork with a look of sheer rapture on his face. Crowley was fairly sure that he could dance the gavotte on the table right now and Aziraphale wouldn't even notice.

Perhaps that was it? Now that Aziraphale was settled in his comfortable cocoon of books, he no longer kept track of the changing of the seasons the same way Crowley did, cold-blooded and shivering as soon as November rolled around. Even so, the lights all over London should've been a giveaway.  
No, Aziraphale knew it was Christmas. He just wasn't acknowledging it. Strange.

"Well, shall we?"

Aziraphale got to his feet and brushed a few crumbs off his waistcoat.

"After you, angel," said Crowley.

Always after you, he added internally. You follow your star and I'll follow mine.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale stood in the centre of the bookshop and glared up at the star, which at least had the decency to dim a little in response.

"Fine, you blasted thing. I suppose you leave me no choice. Where are we supposed to be going?"

The change was instantaneous. In the blink of an eye, the star shrunk to the size of a tennis ball and darkened to a faint lambent glow. It looked like the kind of tacky knick-knack anyone might keep on their shelves for mood lighting, except that it was still hovering directly overhead. Without warning, it dipped low and zipped over Crowley's head toward the doorway, singing the tips of his hair and scaring the living hell out of him.

"Flaming bastard!" he yelled, as the thing began bumping against the doorframe, leaving black scorch marks on the wood.

"Agreed," Aziraphale grumbled. He marched to the backroom and returned with a broom, with which he proceeded to smack the star harder than Crowley had ever seen him hit anything.

"No. Damaging. My. Things!" said Aziraphale, punctuating each word with a swing of the broom. Crowley wondered if he counted as one of Aziraphale's things. He hoped so.

The angel had been thwapping the star so enthusiastically that he hadn't noticed his broom was now on fire. Crowley put it out with a snap.

"That's probably enough, angel. I think it gets the message."

The star did seem somewhat contrite. It had backed away from the doorframe, at least, and didn't seem to be actively burning anything.

"It had bloody better," said Aziraphale, wagging an angry finger in its direction, "or I swear on all that is holy that I will find out how much water it takes to extinguish a star."

Probably more water than all the Earth's oceans put together, Crowley thought, but it was the thought that counted. As much as a small burning ball of gas could seem afraid, the star was managing it.

"Right then," Aziraphale huffed, setting the broom down and straightening his bowtie, "take us where we need to go before I regret ever agreeing to this."

With a brief, nervous look in Crowley's direction, Aziraphale opened the shop door and let the star out into the evening air. It hovered in place for a moment before zipping off at high speed, up and away into the night sky. It settled just below the clouds, a bright little dot that eclipsed everything else in the sky.

"Going to be an interesting Christmas Eve for astronomers," said Crowley, dryly.

The first time this had happened, people hadn't invented telescopes yet. This time, any small child with a basic model would get the opportunity to name a brand new star if they were quick about it.

Aziraphale joined him in the doorway, looking up into the rain. He sighed.

"Hopefully they'll just think it's one of those things, what were they called again? Annoying buzzy things that aren't allowed in the park anymore."

"Bees?" Crowley hazarded, entirely distracted by the smell of Aziraphale's cologne. The top of the angel's head was so close he could practically feel the softness of curls pressing against his chin.

"No, don't be ridiculous! I meant those flying mechanical contrivances with the four spinning bits."

"Oh. Drones."

"Yes! One of those. It certainly moves a bit like one."

He had a point, Crowley had to admit. The star was flitting about impatiently in a most un-starlike fashion. Even the most eccentric human was bound to think "little green men" before "rogue miniature star."

"Do you think we should just...walk after it?" Aziraphale asked, knowing perfectly well that Crowley would have no intention of walking anywhere. After all, the Bentley was parked on the double-yellows outside the shop, glittering like a beautiful black beetle as droplets of rain caught in the streetlights. 

Crowley unlocked it with a gesture and opened the door for Aziraphale.

"Nah. Hop in, angel. The shepherds may have walked but we're going to travel in style."

They found out quickly that it was easier said than done. London was bright and brilliant at Christmastime, all decked out in flickering finery. Every shop, every flat, every streetlight had something blinking or flashing or glowing. Spotting one little star amongst all of it was quite a challenge. 

"Oooh, there! Turn left!" Aziraphale squeaked, holding his breath and the ceiling grab handle equally tightly as Crowley cut across in front of a taxi. 

"You know, it'll be easier to direct me if you keep your bloody eyes open," Crowley growled. 

He ignored Aziraphale's quiet whimpering and put his foot to the floor, willing the other traffic out of the way so he could get up to a reasonable speed. Why invent a machine that could comfortably do a hundred and forty miles per hour (which, in all honesty, no other 1927 Bentley had a hope of achieving, even from new) if you limited yourself to half or a quarter of that? 

"It would be easier to keep my eyes open if I wasn't _afraid for my life!"_ Aziraphale squeezed them shut as the Bentley sped up, weaving between cars and buses with a hair's breadth of clearance. "Crowley, if you discorporate us now after all we've been through, I will be _livid!"_

And there it was, the sickening reminder that they'd been through Hell and Heaven together but that something as mundane as a head-on collision with a wall at ninety-five miles an hour could separate them for eternity. He slammed on the brakes hard enough to force Aziraphale to brace himself against the dashboard, almost sending the angel through the windscreen. The car slid gracelessly to a halt in the centre of Oxford street, the deep rumble of its engine mingling with the beeps of angry motorists.

"Crowley! What the devil are you doing?"

"Ngh."

Crowley was staring straight ahead, frozen, and suddenly very far away from Central London.

"Oh. Um." Aziraphale touched the back of his hand, a feather-light grip on his knuckles as if comforting a startled animal. 

"My dear, we should keep moving. Just. Just press your foot down a little, there's a good chap."

Trembling ever so slightly, Crowley leaned gently on the accelerator. The Bentley began to move again, sticking to a modest fifty miles per hour, and Crowley sat as stiff as a statue, hands clutching the wheel.

They'd lost the star for now, but Aziraphale didn't seem to care.

"Is everything alright, dear boy?" he said, softly.

"Yep." 

Crowley didn't look at him.

"Are you...Are you sure?"

"Yep."

"Oh. Right then."

Aziraphale sounded disappointed, which was almost as bad as his earlier panic. Crowley had gone and messed everything up again, as always.

"M'sorry, I forgot," he muttered, "shouldn't go too fast. Could get us both killed."

Aziraphale touched his hand again, more firmly this time, squeezing the back of it where it was still wrapped around the steering wheel.

"No need to apologize. I was probably a little more emphatic than strictly necessary." 

Prior to the apocalypse, Crowley could've counted the number of times Aziraphale had admitted fault on one hand, even when he was a snake. Angels didn't admit they were wrong, it was one of their defining characteristics. Since the advent of  _ their side _ , though, Aziraphale had clearly been making an effort. It was a weird feeling, hearing him apologize (or sort of apologize, if you squinted your ears a bit), but definitely a nice one.

They drove in silence for a while as Crowley's spirits recalibrated, the crushing fear chased away by the memory of angelic fingers squeezing demonic flesh. He was swinging aimlessly through the city streets in the vague direction the star had last been shining; the little thing had been invisible as soon as they encountered the extravagant lights of Kensington. It was leading them westward, Crowley realised, just as the Magi traveled thousands of years ago. He crossed his fingers for no camels this time; the great, stinking bastards always seemed to know he wasn't human and usually had something to spit about it. He was about to ask Aziraphale if he'd ever had any success with the blasted things when he noticed the angel was gazing sadly out of the window, eyes unseeing.

"Angel?" he asked tentatively.

"Oh, just thinking," said Aziraphale, looking at him with eyes that shone in the reflected glow of the Christmas finery, "I do trust you, Crowley, you know that, don't you? Only I'm not sure I've ever said so."

"'Course," Crowley choked out, looking back at the road before he gave himself away. It was about all he could manage in the face of Aziraphale's horrible, wonderful openness. One day the angel would be the death of him and he wouldn't even care.

"Good. I'm glad. I know I haven't always been terribly clear about things."

"S'fine. Me neither, probably."

"No, my dear," said Aziraphale quietly. "That's the embarrassing part. You've always been wonderfully forthright."

Crowley kept his eyes studiously on the road.

"Yeah, well. Don't go spreading it around," he said, smiling so slightly it would take millennia of familiarity to spot it.

The silence was considerably more comfortable after that. 

Soon they were rising above the narrow London streets on the modern dual-carriageway, their way lit by floodlights, the glowing advertising hoardings that were one of Crowley's most beloved creations, and the not-so-distant light of the star. The road was just a tributary, but Crowley could feel the beginnings of the tingling tide of energy flowing to the M25. They slipped into it, riding the current of taillights out of the city. It took them East, toward the rising moon peeking out through the ragged clouds. 

More pressingly, it took them onto the M4. 

After an hour of driving, it seemed they were approaching their destination. 

"Swindon?" said Aziraphale, nose wrinkling as the star flitted insistently over the motorway exit, "What could Gabriel be up to in Swindon of all places? Isn't it one of your people's places?"

"Former."

"What's that?"

Behind his dark glasses, Crowley rolled his eyes.

" _ Former _ people."

"Oh, yes, of course." Aziraphale cleared his throat uncomfortably. "My apologies. Force of habit."

"S'alright. Neither of us have people anymore, remember?" Just  _ person _ , he added, in the privacy of his head. One person that meant more than the rest of them ever did. One person who'd always been the most important, even when he was telling you very politely to bugger off so he could finish doing his taxes.

"Even so." Aziraphale winced and held the grab-handle again as Crowley tore around the outside of the notorious "magic roundabout" without so much as slowing down. 

"My point stands," he shouted, over the chorus of beeping horns that only seemed to exacerbate Crowley's terrible driving, "Swindon has always felt somewhat--do mind out for that car, for God's sake! Um. Hellish."

Crowley grinned.

"That's what I love about it, angel, It's  _ not _ . Only humans could come up with something this beautifully, ingeniously awful. All I did was make sure it was in a GPS blindspot to give people extra time to enjoy it."

"Gee pee ess?" said Aziraphale, because those particular three letters meant nothing to an angel who hadn't bought a new computer since 1992.

Crowley briefly considered launching into an explanation of invisible waves bouncing off satellites and back down to Earth, but he knew it would end with Aziraphale asking how waves knew where to put the little arrow on the map. 

"It's like, well, it's like that thing," he said, pointing to the star, which had come to a stop over a slightly shabby-looking combination hotel and conference centre, "shows humans where they need to go. 'Course, if they drive inside the ring road here they just get more Swindon."

"How ghastly."

"Thanks, I thought so," said Crowley, grinning.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sighed with just a hint of long-suffering affection.

"Well I hope you know how to find the way out once we're done in there. I don't like the look of this place at all."

There was no way to know if Aziraphale was talking about Swindon in general or the hotel in particular, but Crowley had to agree. The place had seen better days, and even those had probably been overcast and chilly. The car park was pitted with water-filled craters that forced Crowley to slow to a snail's pace for the sake of the Bentley's suspension.

"Not making your usual dramatic entrance?" Aziraphale asked, innocently.

Crowley ignored him and found a parking spot far away from the worst of the puddles. The Bentley knew better than to allow itself to be damaged, but it had been through a lot. These days Crowley was trying his best to make it feel appreciated. They got out into the freezing winter air, picked their way over to the drab little entryway and immediately regretted it. There was a little sign by the door to the conference centre that read:

24th - 25th December 

Heavenly Inc. Christmas Retreat

Celestial Suite

"Oh bugger," said Aziraphale.

Crowley hissed in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised 12 chapters was more thematically appropriate and I'm already 20k in on this thing and not finished yet :D
> 
> Never fear, if I don't get through all of it on the regular update schedule, you'll get all the rest in one go on Christmas Day 🎁


	3. Chapter 3

"Shall we just turn around and go home? Not even bother telling them to shove it in person?" Crowley asked, peering through the glass doors to try and catch a glimpse of any Heavenly funny business. There was always the possibility this could be a trap; just another way for the archangels to shut Aziraphale up for good. Granted, last time they hadn't bothered with traps at all and had just dragged off the closest Aziraphale-shaped being by force, but that didn't mean Crowley trusted any of Heaven's cronies as far as he could throw them. 

"No, no." The angel shook his head, gazing thoughtfully at the sign, "we'll do that face to face, I think. Although I must admit to being curious about all of this. Why on Earth would they want to do a 'Christmas retreat', whatever that is?"

"Why _on Earth_ , indeed. Not like they're short on big empty seminar rooms upstairs, is it?" Crowley ran a hand through his hair and remembered the scorching, oddly comfortable heat of hellfire. "When did all that happen by the way? I've been meaning to ask. I remember a lot more columns and urns and drapery--"

To Crowley's surprise, instead of an answer he got the sudden vise-like grip of an angel on his arm.

"Shhhh, you idiot!" Aziraphale whispered, dragging him away from the doorway and halfway into a rather bedraggled hedge, "You haven't been _anywhere near_ Heaven in over six thousand years, remember? You haven't a clue what it's like!"

"Er. Yeah. Right. Gotcha."

Stringing together a coherent sentence is difficult, because Aziraphale is very close, gripping Crowley's arm for dear life and almost vibrating with worry. 

"You better have got it, Crowley, because I cannot go in there if we're not on the same page. And...I don't think I can go in alone."

"Hey, hey. Same page, angel. Same side, remember?"

Aziraphale looked him in the eye, right through the sunglasses that didn't do much to hide his feelings anymore. The angel saw him every day now; was picking up his tells and weaknesses, learning to read him like one of his books. 

"I remember," he said, releasing Crowley and patting his arm gently in apology, "just as long as you do."

"Been bullshitting for sixty centuries, I should be pretty good at it by now. If I went around getting caught doing things I wasn't supposed to be doing, I'd have been a greasy little stain on Hell's floor tiles the second they found out I'd been having oysters with an angel."

Aziraphale's face softened at the memory of it; their first real moment of companionship.

"They were excellent oysters, although perhaps not worth risking your neck over."

"I'm a snake, remember," Crowley grinned, "got plenty of neck to spare."

The angel's exasperated smile reminded him of why he risked going behind Hell's back in the first place, why every setback and argument down through the years has been worth it. 

"Look, you don't have to go in there at all," Crowley continued, pointing up at the hazy night sky, "the star's gone. We can just leave if you're not up for it."

"I suppose…" Aziraphale screwed up his face a little, thinking. "I know it's dangerous for both of us but honestly, I don't think I'll be able to rest until I know what the bloody hell is going on. And for some reason this all feels... different. Safer, perhaps? No kidnappings, no threats of violence, just a very odd invitation."

"Summons, angel. Not invitation."

"Trust me, dear, for them this is very polite."

Crowley grimaced as he recalled being ordered into the flames. The bastards had just expected Aziraphale to do it, just walk into oblivion because they told him to. Compared to that, sending a potentially deadly nuisance to strongarm Aziraphale into attending was a dazzling display of good manners. The angel drew himself up to his full height and straightened his waistcoat.

"As long as you're with me I'm sure I can handle anything they might dish out," he said, smiling a little too brightly.

"I'm with you," Crowley replied.

Of course he was. He had been since the Garden, after all. Together, they headed back over to the glass doors. Crowley made to open one but Aziraphale beat him to it, standing to one side with a silly little smile on his face.

"After you." 

"No, idiot, after you. I doubt Gabriel'll be expecting to see _me_ , will he?"

"Ha! I suppose not. What a lovely surprise he's got coming."

Aziraphale strode over to the reception desk, where a bored-looking receptionist was staring off into the middle distance. The man's eyes had the telltale glazed-over look that came of having to deal with Gabriel for more than ten minutes.

"Oh, hello, dear fello--"

"The retreat is down the hall and to the left, please collect your badge," the man said in a monotone, gesturing to the cheap, flimsy-looking badge sitting on the countertop. It said "Azipharle" on it. Much to the angel's obvious horror, it was designed to be pinned onto one's clothes with a blunt safety pin.

"Is that _really_ necessary?" Aziraphale asked, at the same time as Crowley said "Thanks" and grabbed it.

He steered an indignant Aziraphale away from the desk and down the hallway.

"Don't manhandle me, Crowley! I'm well within my rights to be offended, my name is wrong and they've had six bloody millennia to learn how to spell it! And have you any idea what sort of damage that stupid little pin will do to velvet?"

The angel quietened down significantly when Crowley dropped the badge into the nearest bin. 

"Would you calm down? The idiot on the front desk doesn't need any more hassle after the day he's had, does he?"

Aziraphale collected himself, schooling his face into an expression of beneficent understanding. Or, at least, what Crowley knew he believed to be beneficent understanding. In reality it always looked like Aziraphale had just smelled something unpleasant. The fluorescent lights in the corridor weren't doing him any favours, either. It all added up to one extremely worried angel.

At the far end of the corridor were a set of double doors; cheap Formica with frosted glass panes and a few sad little paper snowflakes. A plaque on the wall proclaimed it to be the entrance to the "Celestial suite," which was probably far, far closer to reality than the hotel owners had ever imagined. Conference centres were another wonderfully awful human innovation, but that hadn't stopped Crowley taking credit for them.

"Alright. In we go."

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, a few seconds of eye contact that said more than words ever could. The angel could hardly ever bring himself to swear, but after six thousand years of communication with Crowley he didn't have to. 

Aziraphale pushed the doors open. Crowley braced himself.

It was exactly as bad as he was afraid it would be.

The room was a typical flat-footed annexe, all ceiling tiles and suspiciously coloured carpeting (the kind that would hide a multitude of stains), and a last-ditch attempt to decorate it for Christmas. There were more paper snowflakes. There were foil ceiling garlands. There was even a drooping Christmas tree in the corner of the room, covered sparsely with a motley assortment of baubles. In contrast to the attempt at a festive atmosphere, there were also several rows of chairs containing bored-looking angels, who were watching Sandalphon give a PowerPoint presentation. He was dressed as a Christmas pudding and seemed to be giving a very enthusiastic account of the Crucifixion. 

The worst of it, though, was currently striding across the room with Michael and Uriel in tow. 

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel yelled.

He was wearing a suit, as usual. The suit was made of bright green material with a pattern of prancing reindeer, sprays of holly leaves and laughing Santas.

"Oh, good lord," Aziraphale groaned. 

"Yep," Crowley agreed.

"So glad you could join us, I wasn't sure if you'd be able to find the place, let alone get here on time! Why have you brought the demon with you?" 

A choked "Your suit…" was all Aziraphale could manage.

"Oh yes, isn't it Christmassy? My tailor whipped it up for me."

Gabriel's grin was bright and hollow, and his eyes were fixed on Crowley. There was rage there, poorly hidden. Crowley smiled and gave him a cheery wave.

"Really?" Aziraphale asked, still transfixed, "On purpose?"

"Oh yes! He charged what I'm led to believe is 'a lot of money' for it, too!" Gabriel shook his head mockingly at the concept of the money he'd miracled out of thin air having any sort of value. "Humans, eh? Handing bits of paper around like it means something. What will they think of next! Now, tell your demon to leave. Immediately. Right now. Before we make him go away."

Aziraphale stiffened, back straight and chest puffed out. It was the stance he took when a particularly stubborn customer tried to buy one of his first editions, or when Crowley suggested he might like to try using some technology from this century. Still, he had considerably more than six thousand years of conditioning to break and it wasn't going to crumble all in one go.

"Um. Er." He stammered.

"I mean, really, Aziraphale!" Gabriel continued, looking incredulously at Michael and Uriel, "I knew you'd been hanging around with humans, getting a bit too attached, but to think all this time it was a _demon_ you were associating with? This...this, cast off? I mean why would you want to hang around with the trash that _Hell_ threw away?"

"Bit harsh," Crowley mumbled, before he could stop himself.

"Now, now, that's. You _can't_."

Aziraphale was slowly turning pink, his face contorting in anguish as he tried to speak up.

"Out. Now." Michael said, curt and clipped.

Crowley was tempted to ask what she planned on doing to make him go, since as far as she was concerned he was an unkillable menace with a penchant for rubber ducks. He didn't have to, because Aziraphale cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and stood his ground.

"No." 

" _What_ ," Michael hissed. Furious didn't even begin to cover the look that flashed across her face, leaving an afterimage of simmering rage in its wake.

"I. I said no."

"Did you? You sure about that, Aziraphale?" Gabriel asked.

Aziraphale swallowed nervously.

"Crowley _stays_ ," he said, through vocal cords drawn tight with fear, "I have no idea why, but you all went to a lot of trouble to get me here. That means my presence is integral to whatever is going on here, otherwise you would have left me alone. You would have left me to my life in my bookshop, where I wasn't, and _never have been_ , doing anything wrong. _Especially_ not my association with Crowley." 

He looked at Crowley, something deep and unfathomable in his eyes. There was apology there, and affection, and things neither of them were brave enough to talk about. 

"If you wish for me to stay, then Crowley stays as well."

Gabriel stood silently, mouth hanging open as if he'd been punched in the gut. Crowley decided against asking if he needed a hand picking his jaw up off the floor. Instead of giving in to his ever-present urge to make everything worse, he turned his attention to Aziraphale, who was quietly falling apart.

For all that he was trying to seem strong and confident, Crowley could tell the angel was terrified. He was shaking slightly, one hand gripping the hem of his waistcoat and the other balled into a tight fist at his side. Slowly, gently, being careful not to spook him, Crowley reached out and took hold of it, uncurling the clenched fingers and slotting them between his own. 

Aziraphale had taken his hand like this once before, on the bus from Tadfield after everything had fallen apart. They'd held on to each other all evening, drowning sailors adrift in a sea of darkness. If Crowley had fallen asleep against him and drooled a little onto the angel's shirt, neither of them had brought it up. But nor had Aziraphale reached out to him since. 

For a heartbeat he wondered if the angel would pull away, but Aziraphale wrapped his hand around Crowley's and hung on tightly.

"Aziraphale, this is a _family_ event," Michael said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"Well…in that case," Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth silently, before finally getting together the courage to speak, "Crowley _is_ my family." 

That. That was. It was more than Aziraphale had ever admitted, more than he'd ever said over six thousand years of drinking and eating and careful companionship. Crowley swallowed thickly and tried not to let it show on his face. Family. He'd called Aziraphale "best friend" before, had privately thought of him as the only person in the universe that really mattered, but _family_ was different. Permanent. You could choose your friends, they said, but you couldn't choose your family. He'd been Aziraphale's for centuries, whether the angel knew or not, but he'd never dared to hope that Aziraphale was his.

He felt almost as shocked as the archangels looked.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. He managed to gather enough brain cells to squeeze back.

"You _can't_ be serious." Michael looked as though she might be sick. Her face was as red as her suit, which was trimmed at the sleeves and ankles with white fur.

"It appears he is," said Uriel, one eyebrow raised, "so I suppose we either let them both in or turn them away."

They were dressed head to toe in gold, in a high-necked shirt and trousers covered with tiny brocade stars. In Crowley's expert opinion they were the only one who looked halfway decent, even if they did look a little like a roll of wrapping paper.

"Yeah. No. That's not happening. Aziraphale are you absolutely serious about this? Him, really?" Gabriel spluttered.

"Yes. He's...the only one I trust, and I must insist that not only must he be allowed to accompany me, but that he be treated with the respect he deserves. He is. He's my [----]."

And here Aziraphale said something in enochian that Crowley couldn't understand. He tried, turning it over in his brain dozens of times afterwards, but every time it slipped away, like water flowing through his fingers. 

Whatever it was, whatever it meant, it made all three Archangels turn pale. Michael seemed like she might speak, but instead she snapped her mouth shut. 

"Now that's all sorted," said Aziraphale, smiling softly, "please tell my why you felt the need to summon us here."


	4. Chapter 4

"I guess I'll take it from here," said Gabriel, shaking his head in disbelief. The other two archangels reluctantly wandered back to join the group watching the PowerPoint, which seemed to be currently focused on how decomposition was prevented during Christ's time in the cave. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, which Crowley supposed was probably a good thing. The guy had lived and died before technology had advanced much beyond levers and pulleys, exposing him to the wonders of Microsoft software would probably be a bit of a culture shock.

"This way."

Gabriel led Aziraphale off to one side, shooting a death-glare at Crowley whenever he forced the angel to slow down by tugging gently at their joined hands. Gabriel leaned in close to Aziraphale and started talking, but Crowley would be damned all over again if he could concentrate on that. Aziraphale was still holding his hand. It was getting a little sweaty, if he was being brutally honest, but he'd rather cut off his own head than let go. He'd called Crowley family and something else besides, something that had made the Archangels about ready to shit a brick. It made him feel hot inside; a feverish, glorious confusion that could only end up burning him alive when the angel got around to explaining what was going on.

You didn't choose family, after all. Deep down, he knew Aziraphale had only ever deigned to speak to him because there wasn't anyone else. Humans came and went like mayflies, the other angels were assholes at worst, stick-in-the-muds at best, and other demons would have discorporated him on sight. That left Crowley. Six thousand years was a long time to be alone, so it made sense that Aziraphale had allowed Crowley to befriend him, if only for the sake of his own sanity. Family didn't necessarily mean _good_. Lots of people hated their families with a passion.

That left the other thing, the one he couldn't understand. Some angel nonsense, no doubt, but the fact that everyone seemed to know what it meant but _him_ , the subject of the damned conversation, was maddening.

"This is all very interesting," said Aziraphale to Gabriel, lips pursed in an impatient line, "but none of it explains why I'm here, does it?"

Crowley realised he hadn't been listening.

"Look, Aziraphale, buddy. We've had whispers, alright? Rumblings from upstairs. The Metatron has been asking questions about Earth non-stop and it's getting a little worrying. This place," Gabriel frowned, gesturing at the depressing expanse of the conference suite as if it was an apt metaphor for the Earth in general, "we haven't been able to get a clear answer on whether it was supposed to be destroyed or not. And we realized we don't know anything about it. So I thought we'd do some research."

Crowley smiled, shifting his hips so he somehow appeared even more laid back. 

"Sounds like the whole apocalypse business could've been a real humdinger of a fuck up, eh?" He drawled, lowering his sunglasses so the archangel could see the sulfur of his eyes, "Good job Aziraphale and I were around to stop you making a mistake like that."

Gabriel turned on him, crowding in close enough that Crowley could feel the heat of his unnecessary breath.

"Shut the _fuck_ up, demon, or so help me we will try the holy water again until we make it stick."

"How dare you!" Aziraphale growled, pushing Gabriel away with a firm hand to the shoulder, "Need I remind you that you need my help? Or that Crowley is my [----] and will be treated accordingly? You're supposed to be an Archangel, for Heaven's sake!"

"Fine! Fine! I suppose I'll offer the demon a nice glass of regular water instead, shall I? And some of the disgusting lumps of matter the humans put out while I'm at it?"

"Yeah, sounds great," said Crowley, grinning, "I could use a drink."

Gabriel turned on his heel and stormed over to the little buffet table in the corner of the room. Once he was safely out of earshot Aziraphale elbowed Crowley very hard in the ribs.

"Oof, what was that for?"

"Don't antagonise him, Crowley!" He whispered, drawing Crowley close enough that they could talk without being overheard, "I've pushed him far enough already, we're lucky we aren't standing at the epicenter of a smoking crater right now!"

"A nice crater might be an improvement," he said, sweeping the room with his gaze again. It was the only sweeping some bits of it had had in a long time. Aziraphale elbowed him again, harder.

"Are you _trying_ to get both of us killed? All they want is a bit of guidance on human customs and in exchange I made him agree to leave us alone for at least a century! It's a small price to pay and I won't have you turning it into an excuse to hunt us down like animals."

Crowley blinked.

"Human customs? Why do they care all of a sudden? If they'd gotten their way there would've been nothing left of humanity except some bags of frozen shit on the Moon."

Aziraphale sighed in exasperation.

"Weren't you listening at all?"

The angel was giving him the irritated face, the one he made when Crowley put his booted feet up on the sofa. He hated the irritated face.

"Got a bit distracted, alright?" he mumbled, fidgeting his hand where it was still pressed tight against Aziraphale's. Weirdly, it seemed to make the angel blush.

"Well. Quite. Fine, then. There's been news from _head office_. Or, not news, exactly. Rumours, I suppose. The Almighty has made it known that She's extremely displeased with the whole almost-armageddon affair and that learning a bit about Earth might help prevent such a debacle in the future."

"Hang on. She's annoyed that Armageddon failed or that it almost happened?"

"He didn't say. I know which way I _prefer_ to interpret it. Our continued existence seems to support a positive interpretation, but I'm not holding out any great hope that we haven't just been conveniently forgotten about."

Well, it was something, Crowley supposed. Life after the failed apocalypse had been fairly rosy aside from the few times Aziraphale had seemed to be feeling lost. Sometimes the angel would pause in the middle of making cocoa or flipping through a book, lost somewhere Crowley couldn't reach him. Or at least, not without doing something annoying enough to snap Aziraphale out of it. Spooning heaps of sugar into his tea usually did the trick. But no divine judgement had come. As often as Crowley had woken in a cold sweat with the memory of flames in his lungs, in his hair, the plastic of his sunglasses melting onto his skin...the angel and his bookshop were still safe.

"So they started with _Christmas_? No-one told them tis' the season to be snappy, stressed out and cynical?"

Aziraphale tutted but didn't correct him.

"This is a trial run, apparently." He gestured to the rows of confused-looking angels. "Those poor unfortunates are the test group, to see whether the Archangels think it's worth trying to educate the others. Look, dear, I know this isn't exactly how you planned on spending the next few days, but I think if we can get them to understand even a little, it might be worth it?"

Crowley took in the worry lines on Aziraphale's forehead, the tightness at the corners of his mouth. The Archangels had done that to him. Crowley wondered if he could get away with lighting them all on fire without Aziraphale suspecting anything.

"This is important to you." 

"It is. If they actually understood humanity maybe...things could've been different. Maybe it will be different next time. Better."

Next time was the war that was to come, the final reckoning between Heaven, Hell and Humanity. Crowley didn't trust this sham of a celebration, this reconnaissance mission dressed up as an attempt at understanding. But it was important to Aziraphale, so he'd stay and keep his mouth shut. 

"Fine then. I guess we'd better show 'em how it's done." Crowley flexed the fingers of his free hand and snapped them loudly. The conference centre never knew what hit it. 

The tree grew three feet taller and sprouted a dozen extra branches. There were baubles and tinsel and a thousand twinkling lights. The sad, drooping foil garlands went up in smoke, replaced with luxurious red and gold ribbons. Crowley stopped himself before a full-blown fireplace erupted from the wall, but it did suffer from a rather prolific outbreak of stockings. The assembled minor angels looked up from the presentation (now covering the rise of Christianity in the western world, with particular focus on the Crusades, for some reason) and oohed and aahed in wonder.

"Glitter was one of mine, you know," said Crowley proudly. "Looks pretty and everything, but once you get it on you it's never coming off."

He glanced back at Aziraphale, only to see that the angel's face lit up from within, eyes shining in the glow of the twinkling lights.

"Oh Crowley," he sighed, "it's beautiful."

"Shut up, it's not _beautiful_ , angel. It's a conference centre in Swindon."

"Shush, it's lovely."

Aziraphale finally let go of his hand in order to clasp both of his to his chest, seemingly overcome.

"My dear, you'd do this for me? Even after everything?"

"Don't be daft, Aziraphale. Who else am I going to spend Christmas with? Admittedly, I could do without the choir of idiots but they're your _family_ , I guess. Even if they're all bastards. All of them, without exception. Especially Gabriel. And not the fun kind of bastard, either."

"Like me, you mean?" Aziraphale asked, smiling fondly.

"Yeah. Yep. Like you."

"Listen, my dear, about what I said before, when we came in--"

The breath caught in Crowley's throat at the idea of Aziraphale elaborating _here,_ in front of a bunch of angels who would definitely notice if he lost his composure. _Family_ , he thought, brain firing haphazardly as the word pinballed through his head again, he said I was his _family_ , what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

He was saved by the return of the Archangel Gabriel, who shoved a glass of (normal, non holy) tap water into one of his hands and a plate of twenty or so cold sausage rolls in the other. 

"Here, I guess," Gabriel muttered, "go nuts."

The archangel then turned to Aziraphale, clearly hoping that if he pretended Crowley didn't exist hard enough he might go away.

"Alright Aziraphale, I'm pretty sure Sandalphon's almost done with the background info, so it's over to you. What's next on the agenda?"

Aziraphale turned pale. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, you're the one who knows what this stupid human tradition is about, it's why you're here," he said, speaking slowly as if Aziraphale was a little hard of thinking, "so what's next? There was something in the notes about trimming the tree, do we need shears for that or what?"

"Oh, um. No, no shears needed," said Aziraphale, glancing nervously at Sandalphon, whose ears seemed to have pricked up at the mention of weaponry, "no edged weapons at all, in fact."

The minor angels were now sitting, fidgeting slightly, in front of a blank screen. Several had turned around to see what was going on. Crowley wondered what they made of him, the only black spot in a sea of beige and cream, slouching awkwardly with a plate of cold sausage rolls. He fought back the instinctual urge to stand up straighter. Trying to distract himself, he popped one of the sausage rolls into his mouth and almost gagged on it.

It wasn't just cold, it was dry and congealed. The damned thing had to have been sitting out for _hours_. Which, come to think of it, made sense.

"What time is it, angel?" he asked, nudging Aziraphale with one elbow.

If there was one thing Crowley liked to do in front of people he hated, it was flash his ostentatious watch around, but that was hardly an option right now without tipping water down his jacket.

"Ah, um," Aziraphale stopped quietly panicking and fumbled for his pocket watch, which Crowley was pleased to note was the one he'd presented the angel with in 1832. Most watches from that period needed winding at least once per day, but this one would keep going until the very last atom cooled to a standstill if it knew what was good for it.

"Blimey, it's almost eleven pm," Aziraphale gasped.

"That's what I thought," Crowley replied, snapping his plate of disgusting sausage rolls out of existence. "This lot should all be tucked up in bed, having visions of sugarplums and all that jazz."

"Bed? What would they be doing lying down on a bed? That definitely sounds like the sort of waste of time a demon would lie about." said Gabriel.

"Actually, he's quite correct," said Aziraphale, tartly, "Christmas Eve is the one night a year that it's especially important for humans be in bed."

"Why? Doing _what_?"

"Sleeping's traditional," Crowley offered, "although it's definitely not my favourite option." 

This was a lie, more or less, but Gabriel didn't know that.

"As for the why," said Aziraphale, shooting Crowley a look that implied he wasn't helping at all, "well, it's...it's a surprise! A _nice_ surprise, all part of the Christmas tradition."

Gabriel considered this, lips pursed tightly in suspicion. He looked to the other Archangels, none of whom seemed to have much of an idea of what to do next. Michael and Uriel were unenthusiastically dishing out reindeer antlers and tinsel halos to the assembled angels, and Sandlephon, for once, seemed to have run out of things to say about historical violence.

"If you're doing this the human way, you can't spend all night sitting on folding chairs listening to lectures," said Crowley, persuasively, "Humans don't. They get nice and snug in their beds with a warm cup of cocoa and sleep. Can't have a festive, jolly old Christmas morning if you don't even go to bed."

"It's really the best part," Aziraphale added. 

He was overselling a bit, but Crowley had seen enough Christmas movies to know that for a lot of people the morning was the whole point. Presents and bucks fizz and everyone shouting at each other as they tried to cook a turkey too big for the oven. For a demon, it was a treasure trove of low-level evil. Particularly for the forward-thinking demon who had come up with the idea of electronic toys that flashed and made loud noises and never, ever came with batteries included. Crowley had to admit he had a soft spot for Christmas, if only because his work disproportionately affected the rich and covetous.

"Well, alright then." Gabriel turned to the audience of angels and addressed them at a frankly unnecessary volume. "We'll reconvene in the morning, seven am sharp. Try to get some sleep, if you can figure out how. Each of you now have a room booked, so get to it. Dismissed." Gabriel snapped his fingers, and all the lower-ranked angels began to file out of the room. 

"Whatever this surprise is, it had better be good," said Gabriel, looking Aziraphale in the eye.

He turned and marched away, collecting the other Archangels and ushering them into the corridor leading back to the hotel.

"Well, shit," said Crowley as he watched them go, "this should be interesting."

"What are we going to do, Crowley? Oh, this is a disaster."

Feeling suddenly brave, Crowley placed a comforting hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. From the way the angel's breathing slowed and his body relaxed, it seemed like his bravery had paid off.

"It'll be fine, it's not exactly high stakes compared to Armageddon, after all. Teach 'em how to pull crackers and put Wallace and Gromit on in the background. They'll be dozing off by mid-afternoon."

"They don't sleep! Or eat! Or do anything _fun_! I don't know if you remember Heaven, but all they do is work. All the time. With no breaks."

Aziraphale must have hated it up there, Crowley thought, because he took breaks as if cocoa drinking and little strolls in the park were going out of fashion. He was fairly certain the angel had been meaning to reorganize the bookshop since opening day (when a customer found the first editions far to easily for Aziraphale's liking), and still hadn't gotten around to it two hundred years later.

"So why don't you teach them, angel? You're a food expert, I'm a sleep expert, that's two thirds of a textbook Christmas day right there. Plus your idea of _fun_ is probably right up their street."

Aziraphale looked at him; the little look he reserved for when Crowley was being delightfully wicked. Equal parts amusement and disapproval, it was one of his all time favourites.

"Do I want to know what comprises the other third?"

"Alcohol," Crowley grinned, "truly extraordinary amounts of alcohol."

Aziraphale let out a sharp little laugh and smiled, properly, for the first time since the unwelcome star had winked into existence in the middle of his bookshop.

"Oh, lord. Can you imagine them all drunk?"

"A true Christmas miracle."

"For whom?"

"Well, me, mostly."

Crowley looked around at the empty room, with its patchy carpeting and depressing buffet table. It was a good job they had actual, literal miracles at their disposal. The place was as tired as he was and the fluorescent lighting wasn't doing either of them any favours.

"Look, let's sort it all out in the morning, OK? If I don't get some sleep soon I won't be held responsible for my actions."

"By 'actions' do you mean becoming increasingly grumpy and recalcitrant, dear boy?"

Crowley yawned and stretched, popping more vertebrae than was usual for a human spine.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Well, we can't have that, can we? I do hope Gabriel managed to book a room for us as well, I wouldn't put it past him to forget completely."

Crowley was halfway through mumbled affirmation that Gabriel was, indeed, a complete wanker who would something like force someone to come to Swindon under duress and then forget to put them up in any sort of accommodation, when Aziraphale's actual words finally percolated through his brain. The angel was leading him across the floor, hand resting on the small of his back, and had just said he hoped they could share a hotel room. He stopped walking so suddenly that Aziraphale almost pushed him over.

"Angel, wait, what? What the bloody Heaven is that supposed to mean? You hope he booked _us_ a _room? Singular_? And, and you said…"

Aziraphale sighed, looking up into Crowley's tired eyes with an unreadable expression on his face.

"I know what I said, my dear. I _meant_ what I said. And as for the room, I...well, only one of us sleeps, and I'll have to be up and out in a few hours to start sorting things for this nightmare of a Christmas party. I'm quite content to sit and read while you sleep."

"Mnh. This is a lot, y'know." 

"I know, dear. I'm sorry it had to happen like this. Here, with all of this going on."

"S'fine."

 _I love you_ , he didn't say, although his tired brain thought it loudly enough that Aziraphale could've almost heard it. Instead, he allowed Aziraphale to nudge him forward again, steering him out into the hotel's reception.


	5. Chapter 5

There was no room booked, of course, but it was nothing a quick miracle couldn't fix. Crowley felt the telltale tingle of several others being fired off as they climbed the stairs to the second floor and Aziraphale fumbled unhappily with the key card.

"You just hold it over the thing, angel," he added 

unhelpfully.

"I am _holding_ it."

"You aren't, you're swiping. It's not a credit card reader."

"Look, would you, I'm holding it and the blasted thing isn't going green!"

Crowley pried it out of his hand and held it over the metal patch on the door handle for precisely three seconds. The LED on the lock turned green and it beeped happily.

"One of your innovations, I trust." Aziraphale sighed.

"Nah, just been in a hotel in the last ten years."

Aziraphale tutted at him and pushed past into the room, which was appointed with a suspiciously large and comfortable-looking bed and an armchair that could have been the twin of the one in the backroom of the bookshop. The kettle had a selection of Aziraphale's favourite teas next to it, and a glance into the bathroom revealed a shower with more knobs and nozzles than the one in Crowley's flat. The towels had a pale tartan pattern, which he put down to angelic overenthusiasm. 

At any other time, Crowley would've teased Aziraphale mercilessly about the unusual level of comfort in the room, situated as it was in a budget business hotel in Swindon. But he was suddenly aware that he was alone with Aziraphale, who had done all manner of confusing, wonderful things over the course of the last hour. Maybe if Crowley was lucky, he might explain some of them.

Aziraphale had already settled in the armchair and had flicked on the kettle. He didn't look at Crowley as he toed off his boots and perched on the edge of the bed. 

"Aziraphale?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes, I know. I need to explain."

"Only if you want to. It'll keep. Doesn't have to be now."

It was true. As much as Crowley wanted, needed to know what Aziraphale meant by all of it, he wouldn't push. Couldn't push. Pushing made Aziraphale have to push back, push him away, and there wasn't any room for that anymore. 

"No. That's very kind of you, dear, but I owe you an explanation. Where. Um. Where would you like me to start?"

Aziraphale's voice was bright and brittle, artificially calm. He was a frozen lake, and Crowley would need to tread carefully not to break through and drown them both.

"Uh. Family. You said I was your family." 

"Oh, well," Aziraphale shifted in his seat, ignoring the kettle when it finished boiling, "it's quite true. You're the only one who's always been there, Crowley, who's never left me even when I richly deserved it. We defied Heaven and Hell together. Wouldn't you say that makes us family?"

Crowley studied the wallpaper to the left of Aziraphale's face, which was far too difficult to look at when he was opening himself up so completely. They didn't talk about things directly, it hadn't ever been safe to. Maybe it still wasn't safe if Aziraphale was going to look at him like that. 

"But. It's a human thing, innit? And it's s'posed to be permanent. Or as permanent as it gets for humans."

For them it's a hundred and twenty years, tops, he thought. For us, it's forever. There was no way Aziraphale had considered that.

"Crowley, dear. It's already been forever. I think after six thousand years we can admit that we're important to one another, and that we always will be?"

The words _yes_ and _of course_ and _don't be daft_ and _I've been in love you for most of it_ collided in his throat and came out as a funny little clicking sound. Aziraphale was waiting for him to say something, he had to _say something_ , so he nodded a few more times than was strictly necessary. Aziraphale relaxed visibly, settling back into the chair with a hopeful smile on his face.

"I'm very glad, Crowley, I really am. I was so worried I'd said something stupid again."

"S'fine, s'good. Great. Love it," Crowley managed, "might get some business cards made up."

"Saying what, exactly? I rather think I should be the one with the cards, don't you?" Aziraphale asked amused, "A. Z. Fell and _Family,_ Antiquarian and Unusual Books."

Crowley's throat did the tightening thing again, but this time he was ready for it.

"Business cards are usually for businesses that actually want to sell things," he said, grinning.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

"Oh dear, good point. The sign then, I could change the sign!"

"Really? S'been A. Z. Fell and Co. For two hundred years."

"I think it might be time for some things to change, my dear."

Crowley wracked his brain for the last time Aziraphale had willingly changed anything. Little things here and there, sure, but the angel had worn the same coat for almost two centuries for Christ's sake. He didn't change. He kept everything he cared about in stasis until it fell to bits irreparably. 

But he was offering now, looking imploringly at Crowley as if he might shatter to pieces if Crowley tried to brush him off or make a stupid joke.

"That. Er. Sounds good," said Crowley, "great. Tickety boo."

That was the right thing to say. Aziraphale beamed at him, eyes full of glorious hope. Looking straight at him was almost painful. This was all a bit painful, if Crowley was being honest; after six thousand years of orbiting around one another, of knowing that any contact would lead to oblivion, skimming so close to addressing this thing between them felt like falling all over again.

It was clearly too much for Aziraphale as well, as he'd started fussing with the kettle and the individually wrapped tea bags. After the second one he ripped through trying to open it, Crowley batted him away and did it for him. He made himself a chamomile, too, with a spoon of honey from the tiny jar that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago, and dared Aziraphale to say something about it.

He only smiled, soft and affectionate, and oh, that might be worse.

"I'm gonna go to bed," he said, when their tea was drunk and there didn't seem to be anything else for it. 

They could talk, he supposed, but then he'd have to face the stupid archangels with a heart twisted into an unfamiliar shape. Broken, maybe. Most likely not. But too much, to different either way, for whatever bullshit he would need to support Aziraphale through. This wasn't about him, after all. 

Aziraphale had some things to work through. Gabriel had called and he'd reluctantly answered, but this wasn't like the all times the angel had dropped everything when Heaven had a task for him. Ground had been stood, progress made. Aziraphale had held fast against their slings and arrows and covered Crowley, like he always did.

"Alright, my dear, I'll just grab a book to read. You don't mind if I keep the light on?"

"Nah. Could sleep upside down on the wall if I needed to."

Crowley ignored the funny look Aziraphale gave him and miracled his clothes into a set of black silk pyjamas. Thin pyjamas, he realised, which even though they were loose and comfortable left a lot less to the imagination than his usual clothes. But then again, Aziraphale had seen him in nothing at all before, back when public bathhouses had a "no clothes" policy as standard. Not a big deal at all. He wished it felt like no big deal.

Hurriedly, Crowley shuffled under the covers and settled back onto the suspiciously vertiginous mountain of pillows. No hotel supplied quite this many, especially ones with little tassels on the corners. That sort of frilly nonsense had been out of fashion for over a hundred years, but Aziraphale's tastes changed at a glacial pace. The bed, though, was absolutely perfect. Firm enough to support his spine, which had never quite gotten used to being more-or-less upright all day long, but soft enough that it didn't hurt his hips. He hissed as his body sank into it and didn't even care if Aziraphale heard.

"Comfortable?" 

"Yessss."

"Good. Goodnight, dear boy."

With a flick of his wrist, Aziraphale switched on the little reading light over his chair and turned off the main lights. In the gloom, Crowley's eyes began to drift closed, but he stayed awake a while to watch the angel with his artificial halo lose himself in the book he'd pulled across time and space just so that he had something to read. So much of his time at the bookshop in recent days had been just watching Aziraphale behind his sunglasses, waiting, listening for something undefinable in the air. 

He could hear it now. Faint, but getting louder.

As his eyes drifted shut and his breathing slowed, he heard something else. From across the room, Aziraphale murmured:

"Sleep well, my [----]."

The strange, musical sound of the heavenly word washed over Crowley like sunlight, warm and comforting. 

It sounded like Aziraphale, he realised, as he drifted off into a deep, comfortable sleep.

***

Dreams are strange enough things for humans, but for an immortal demon with six thousand years of memories crowding the dark recesses of his subconscious, they could be really, truly _weird_.

It started normally enough, with Crowley behind the wheel of his Bentley, weaving between cars and dodging street-furniture at breakneck speed. He whooped as he narrowly avoided a lorry by zipping down a side street too tight for any sort of motor vehicle, and grinned at Aziraphale, who was trembling in the passenger seat with his eyes squeezed shut. The roar of the engine and the gut-punch of acceleration felt so indescribably good it felt like _flying_.

He sped up as they hit the country roads outside London, snowy countryside flashing by in a blur of light and dark, taking corners and humps with unrestrained abandon. And then, after one particularly large bump, the Bentley didn't come back down. Now they _were_ flying, soaring, in fact, watching the quiet fields and sleepy villages float past below. Aziraphale's eyes were open and shining as he gazed out at the view, much calmer now that they were in midair than he'd ever been on the ground. Crowley had to admit it was more peaceful than flying solo; sitting in the warm bubble of the Bentley's cabin with the heater running beat freezing his ass off in the middle of the sky any day. 

"Oh, Crowley, look," Aziraphale said, pointing down at a field where children were throwing snowballs. "Doesn't that look fun?"

"We could join them, if you like," Crowley replied, knowing with the strange logic of dreams that it was true. They could drift down as easily as a snowflake and settle wherever they liked. 

But then Aziraphale turned and looked at him, put a hand on his knee, and smiled.

"Oh, no, my dear. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Crowley felt his heart skip a beat as the Bentley rose further, up through the clouds and the atmosphere, until the whole of the UK was visible against the curve of the Earth, cradled by the glinting seas.

The view was stunning, but Aziraphale was even more so. Reflected sunlight painted him in gold:

from the tips of his shining curls to the soft sheen of his waistcoat. As gravity fell away, the angel rose from his seat as light as air and pulled himself into Crowley's lap, one arm slung comfortably over his shoulder. And it felt real, it felt right, it felt _familiar_. He nuzzled his face into Aziraphale's neck and breathed in dust and vetiver and the faint scent of ancient paper.

"I'm so glad we're doing this," Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley couldn't agree more.

The Bentley seemed to know where they were going, so he let go of the wheel and focused instead on his lapful of angel. Aziraphale fit into his arms like a missing piece. The stars surrounded them, his children of so long ago, and they welcomed him home.

The windscreen framed a binary pair: one star large and bright, one star smaller and dimmer, both locked together until the end of time, circling one another for eternity without ever touching.

And that was the thing, wasn't it? They didn't touch, not like this. Crowley had never held Aziraphale close, had never felt the angel's hair tickling his nose or the worn velvet of his waistcoat beneath his fingertips.

None of this was real.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley woke up alone. 

He woke up alone in a hotel room in Swindon, arms and legs wrapped around a pillow instead of an angel, and was hit with a wave of panic. Aziraphale was gone. His brain caught up to his body a few seconds later and reminded him that Aziraphale might just be in the bathroom. 

_Doing what, exactly?_ a different part of his brain supplied. Examining the idea further revealed no sounds coming from the bathroom, no light peeking underneath the door, so that was probably out.

“‘Ziraphale?” he called out, just in case.

No answer. No angel.

He was about to change into his clothes and go looking when he noticed the note on the side table next to his head. 

It was in Aziraphale’s handwriting: the assiduously neat hand of a being that had been writing since before writing was invented. 

Dear Crowley,

I tried to wake you to tell you I was heading downstairs, but you were dead to the world. As much as I would like to stay and read until you wake up, I'm afraid I made a commitment to be there at 7.30am and I had a feeling you wouldn't be amenable to being roused so early. Please do come and join me when you're awake, I imagine I'll need some moral support by then.

Fondest regards,

Aziraphale

P.S. I was serious about trying to wake you. I am equal parts impressed and frustrated by your commitment to oblivion.

P.P.S Merry Christmas, my dear.

Scrambling for his watch, Crowley checked the time. It was nine thirty, which meant that Aziraphale had been alone with the Heavenly masses for at least two hours. More than enough time for all sorts of things, none of which were good. Aziraphale could be halfway to Heaven by now, or discorporated, or _worse_. 

He jammed his feet into his boots, dressed with a snap of his fingers, and sauntered as quickly as possible down to the conference centre, trying to make it look as if he wasn’t hurrying. Old habits died hard, and there was nothing less cool than hurrying. 

Crowley breezed past the receptionist and down the corridor, which was somehow even more beige and bland in the light of day. Through the double-doors, he could hear the joyous sound of Aziraphale passive-aggressively bossing people around. Crowley stifled a grin as he slipped inside; it didn’t sound as if things were going too well. 

He was greeted by the sight of two-dozen angels sitting in a circle of folding chairs, all wearing antlers, halos, hats or festive jumpers. All except one, who was sitting off to one side taking notes on a little golden stenograph. In the centre of the circle was pile of brightly-wrapped boxes that Crowley recognised as the prop Christmas presents from under the hotel tree.

“Alright, so, as I was saying before Gabriel made his _excellent_ point about the ultimate futility of exchanging material objects, the aim of this activity is to show kindness to others by giving them a gift that they would like.”

“A _pointless_ gift,” Gabriel clarified, smugly.

“Er. Yes. Pointless to us, but very meaningful to humans.” Aziraphale composed himself, shifting in his seat so he was somehow sitting up even straighter. “So. I will hand around the hat and everyone will pick out a name. If you get your own name, please put it back and take another. When you have the name of your gift recipient, please take a box and try to manifest something you think they would like inside it. Oh, and don’t forget to put a label on it so everyone knows who it’s for.”

One of the angels put up their hand. 

“Yes, Eremiel?”

“Can it be Her divine love? I know that’s my favourite thing.” Eremiel asked, wide-eyed and earnest. There was a murmur of agreement from the other angels and a great deal of nodding.

Even from the other side of the room, Crowley could practically hear Aziraphale grinding his teeth. 

“While that is a good idea, Eremiel, very thoughtful, divine love is intangible and therefore very difficult to put into a box. Please try to think of something simple and, above all, _physical_.”

He shoved the hat full of names into the hands of the angel to his left and then sagged back into his seat. Once it had made its way around half of the circle, Crowley sidled into Aziraphale’s line of sight and waved. His heart stuttered in his chest as Aziraphale's face lit up like a Christmas tree, suddenly filled with all the festive joy that had been drained away by a morning with the other angels. Sitting in the chair at Aziraphale's right, Gabriel glared at him with open hostility, so he shot a cheery wave in his direction too.

Aziraphale seemed to be more than holding his own, so Crowley stood on the sidelines for a while and watched as angels exchanged boxes. None of them seemed to have any idea what to do next. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as they all, as one, turned to look at Aziraphale expectantly.

“And now you _open_ your box,” Aziraphale said, patience clearly worn down to its very last thread, “and see what your friend has chosen as a gift for you.”

The angels certainly had some idea of which material objects were desirable, but it became apparent very quickly that they had no idea of _scale_. They oohed as Michael opened a princess-cut diamond the size of her fist, ahhed as Uriel received a shining brick of gold. When Sandalphon pulled a jewelled stiletto dagger that Crowley could’ve sworn belonged to the Medici family, Aziraphale held up a hand for them to stop.

“This is all very nice, but the gifts should be personal, not just something of material value.”

“Oh, this is very personal,” Sandalphon said, twirling the dagger expertly between his fingers. “very _up close and personal_.”

Gabriel burst into riotous laughter, and Crowley saw a little muscle at the corner of Aziraphale's left eye begin to twitch. He knew that twitch, and there were at least three other frustrated tics to come before Aziraphale finally lost his temper. That was with humans, of course. With the Archangels there could be a few more hitherto undiscovered ones before the ultimate angelic meltdown. There was no way Crowley in Heaven or Hell that would let it get that far, but it was entertaining to imagine.

While Aziraphale coached his audience about suitable Christmas presents (Crowley was amused to note that his examples all seemed to be clothes, books or chocolate), Crowley sidled up to the little stenographer and cleared his throat.

The angel ignored him, clicking the keys louder as if that would make Crowley go away.

"Oi, mate," Crowley said, insinuating himself further into the angel's personal space. "Where's the guest of honour?"

“I am not your _mate_ ,” the angel snapped. 

Crowley grinned as the angel realised he’d been tricked into acknowledging a demon. 

“Look, his plane landed an hour ago. A full retinue of angels has been dispatched to receive him. Now _go away_ , demon.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Crowley said, patting him jovially on the shoulder. 

The angel almost fell off his stool in his effort to get away from Crowley, brushing frantically at the sleeve of his tunic. Crowley left him to it.

Messing with angels that weren’t Aziraphale was just too easy; they got fixated on his demonic nature and had no appreciation for his wit. He was contemplating the best way to spice up the present exchange when the actual words the angel had said sank in. 

“Did you say his _plane_ landed?” he asked.

The angel put his head down and started typing hard enough to to make the stenotype machine creak. 

No answers there, then. Either Heaven’s approach to transport had gotten a lot more advanced over the last century or Jesus Christ walked the Earth once more. Or flew over the Earth, at least. He was back, and he hadn’t even bothered to say hello. 

This was news, big news. Aziraphale needed to know. 

The present exchange seemed to be finished, with angels admiring boxes of chocolates and cashmere scarves with all the fascination of naturalists studying rare species of beetle, so Crowley pulled Aziraphale out of his chair by his sleeve and ushered him over to the corner by the Christmas tree. 

“What, what is it? Is there an emergency?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yes! I don’t know! Look, JC is back on Earth, alive!”

“Oh, really? How wonderful. Is that all?”

“Is that all? Is that _all_? The second coming of Christ and you ask if that’s all?”

Aziraphale, clearly amused, put a soothing hand on his arm. 

“It’s not too surprising, my dear. Many prophecies of Armageddon include the second coming of Jesus Christ. I imagine he took the opportunity to pop down for a visit.”

“Pop down,” Crowley said, “for a visit.” 

“Well, I imagine it’s pleasure rather than business. No need to judge the living and the dead anymore, thanks to Adam.”

“So that would mean he’s been on Earth for months.” Crowley said, running an anxious hand through his hair.

“Yes, dear.”

“And he didn’t even say hi?” 

The angel was looking at him with soft, sympathetic eyes, which was _wrong._ He was a demon, for crying out loud, he didn’t want Aziraphale feeling sorry for him. 

“I mean, that’s totally fine, why would I care anyway,” he finished, lamely.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up when he arrives, Crowley. I imagine you’re the only person still alive who ever really knew him, after all.”

“Mm. Well, whatever. maybe. What’s the plan for the god squad next, then?”

“Ah, I was going to put on a film for them to watch. They’re very...um…”

“Tiring?”

Aziraphale looked over at the assembled angels guiltily. Sandalphon was currently testing the tensile strength of a scarf while Gabriel sniffed suspiciously at some chocolate liqueurs. Michael, at least, seemed to be enjoying her copy of War and Peace. 

“Yes...oh, Crowley, I need a break from supervising them for an hour or two, they didn't understand the stockings at all, even though I made sure there was a Clementine in every single one!"

"Clementine...angel, nobody's done that since the Victorians."

"I know, but it was such a lovely tradition. Worst of all, they wouldn't even try them! Do you know they wouldn’t eat any breakfast, either? Not even a croissant! Gabriel said they’d be put on a list if they ate anything!” 

“Ah well, you can take a horse to water. Not the end of the world, is it?”

“But what’ll I do about Christmas dinner? It’s the centrepiece of the whole day! They're just going to sit there and not eat anything and stare at me all over again!”

Crowley resisted the urge to laugh as Aziraphale’s lip began to wobble. The thought of all that food sitting uneaten was probably too much for him to bear. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll think of something. Tell them it’s not an official Christmas celebration unless they eat their own bodyweight in turkey and brussel sprouts. Heaven should be on board with sprouts, eating them's like penance for all of the good food.”

"Not if you use enough butter," Aziraphale said, dreamily, "And little bits of bacon and plenty of black pepper."

"Alright, well, put your movie on then, before Sandalphon murders someone."

The archangel in question had a scarf wrapped around Eremiel's neck and was pulling rather too hard to be friendly. Aziraphale made a face.

"I'm not sure they can be discorporated by asphyxiation, actually. Have you noticed none of them are bothering to breathe?"

"Oh yeah, would you look at that." Crowley surveyed the still forms of the seated angels, most of whom were staring straight ahead like mannequins while they waited for instruction. "That's surprisingly creepy."

"Yes, I thought so, too. Right. Well. Let's get them watching something that isn't me." 

Aziraphale cleared his throat and turned to address the room.

"Now then everyone, It's traditional to watch at least one Christmas film on Christmas Day, so please find a seat."

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a large projector screen unfurled itself against the west wall. It was joined by several rows of plush chairs and an old-fashioned movie projector, which flickered into life with a nostalgic clitter-clatter. Aziraphale had chosen a black and white film, naturally, and when Crowley realised what it was he cracked a dazzling grin that made Aziraphale blush.

"It's a Wonderful Life, angel?"

"Well, it's got angels in it. And it might help them understand humanity a bit. And besides, it's my favourite, so _not a_ _word_ out of you, if you please."

"Can't fault that logic," Crowley said, and headed over to take a seat in the back row. Most of the other angels had drifted over as soon as the projector started playing. They sat as far away from Crowley as possible, all except for Aziraphale who collapsed in the chair next to him and discreetly removed all the other seats in the row. 

Crowley performed a quick demonic miracle of his own and killed the lights, plunging them all into a soft, flickering darkness as George Bailey reached the end of his rope up on the big screen. The poigniency was undercut slightly by Gabriel and Sandalphon chuckling at the poor man’s misfortune, but it was there in Aziraphale’s eyes -- all the sorrow of a life spent in the service of good with absolutely no reward. With his sunglasses on no-one could tell he was watching the angel instead of the movie, and he was so distracted by the sad little frown on Aziraphale’s face that he almost jumped out of his skin when the angel’s hand brushed against his. 

Aziraphale was reaching out to him in the darkness, so Crowley took his hand and held it tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra bonus Chapter today!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Jesus warning - he's in this one. Canon-typical blasphemy ahead.

“Guardian angels,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning in close so that nobody else could hear. “Such a lovely idea, don’t you think? Strange that Humanity thinks so much better of us than we truly are. I sometimes wish we were more like guardian angels.”

“Aziraphale,” he whispered back, “you’re literally a guardian angel. Guardian of the Eastern Gate, remember?”

“And a fine job I did of that, if you recall.”

“Well, yeah. I guess. But you gave them the sword to keep them safe, and you’ve taken care of them ever since. Them, their books, their knowledge. You’ve kept it all safe.”

“But not from themselves,” he said wistfully, as George climbed over the parapet of the bridge and prepared to end it all. 

“Nobody could do that. And anyway, you always protected me, even from myself.”

It was out before Crowley could stop it, but when Aziraphale smiled in the darkness he found he didn’t mind. It was true, after all. In all the times throughout history that Crowley had wanted to give up, to just find somewhere quiet and dark and curl up forever, Aziraphale had been there to drag him out of his funk with good wine and better company. 

“So would you say I’m _your_ guardian angel, dear?” Aziraphale whispered, smirking. 

“Don’t push it.”

“Could you two stop talking, please? I’ve always wanted to see this one.”

There was someone sitting to Crowley's right who hadn't been there before. Someone with long hair and a knowing smile and a face that millions of people would utterly fail to recognise. There had been thousands of different representations of this face, none of which had captured it correctly. Not the grace in his features or the kindness in his eyes, and certainly not the knowing smile that said more than any words.

"Jesus Christ!" Crowley exclaimed.

"Yeah, that's me. Long time no see, eh, Crowley?"

Crowley realised his mouth was hanging open and promptly closed it.

"We'll catch up in a bit, but if you don't mind, I'd like to watch the film. I've been told it's a Christmas tradition."

“Sure, uh, knock yourself out."

And Jesus Christ, the Son of God, laughed and turned his attention back to the screen. Crowley, for his part, turned to Aziraphale and silently mouthed something blasphemous. 

“Shh, my dear,” the angel replied, holding up a finger to lips that were pursed with barely contained amusement. 

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Crowley slouched down in his chair and summoned a box of popcorn from the ether -- both for Aziraphale to graze from and so that he could throw pieces of it at the back of Gabriel’s head whenever he could get away with it. Neither Jesus Christ (King of Kings and Saviour of all Mankind), nor Aziraphale (Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Protector of Humanity and part-time bookseller) said a word when he nailed the Archangel every single time. 

The film was better than he remembered, too. It was too schmaltzy for Crowley to ever admit to liking it, but it was partly a tale of an insignificant, unappreciated angel come good, so he couldn’t help but fall in love a little. He watched Aziraphale’s face glow with satisfaction as Clarence finally got his wings, and felt an answering glow inside his chest. It was how things should be, after all. Hard work and good deeds rewarded, and angels who valued human life above all else. Sadly for humanity, Crowley had only ever met one angel like that.

After the credits began to roll, Aziraphale reluctantly snapped his fingers and brought the lights back up. As if he’d found the concept of sitting still to be physically offensive, Gabriel sprang to his feet. 

“Well, that was certainly something. I loved how wrong the humans got it, just hilarious! But long, much too long to be sitting down. Aziraphale, what’s next on the agenda? I hope it’s not more sloth, or Heaven forbid, gluttony!”

“Oh, um.” 

Aziraphale turned pale and looked at Crowley, silently begging him to come up with something. Crowley briefly considered trying to sell Gabriel on a bracing Christmas jog around the carpark, but he was saved before he could open his mouth.

"Excuse me," Jesus said, raising a hand. "Not that I know much about Christmas or anything, but it's hardly sloth to take a rest once in a while, nor is it gluttony to enjoy a meal with friends in celebration."

He took a piece of Crowley's popcorn and popped it into his mouth. "Just my humble opinion, of course."

"My Lord!" Michael exclaimed, pushing Gabriel aside with as much dignity as she could muster. "We're dreadfully sorry you weren't welcomed properly. Is there anything we can do to be of service?"

"Oh, no need for all that 'My Lord' business. Just treat me like you would anyone else. And I'm fine, really. A little tired after all the travelling, but the movie was very refreshing."

"What happened to the angels that were sent to collect you, sir?" Uriel asked, one eyebrow raised.

It was the first time Crowley had heard them speak all day, which, now he came to think of it, was extremely worrying. The other Archangels seemed to have one brain cell between the lot of them, held firmly in Michael's custody of except on very special occasions. Gabriel certainly didn't seem to have regular visitation rights and Sandalphon probably didn't even know it existed. Uriel, on the other hand, well. Crowley had the sneaking suspicion that they might actually be _smart_. 

And a smart archangel was a dangerous archangel.

"I did wait for them but they didn't show up, I'm afraid," Jesus said, a little sadly. "I'm fairly certain they're still lost in Heathrow Terminal five somewhere. It might have been wise to let them practice being down on Earth before sending them somewhere so…"

"Hellish?" Crowley supplied helpfully.

"Exactly," Jesus laughed.

Crowley felt an answering laugh bubbling up in his chest, and just like that, it was like the old days again. Like Jesus had never hung from a cross until he bled out on the earth, gasping for water in the blazing sun, but had just sort of...stepped out for a while. And now he was back. Maybe he'd never really left. 

Either way, the bastard could make you feel at ease with a single smile, could make you feel like you'd known him your entire life if you broke bread with him for an hour. Crowley had spent forty days with him, showing off the kingdoms of the world and half-heartedly tempting with ideas like running away, settling down somewhere nice, and not dying to save a bunch of ungrateful people who didn't remotely deserve it. But that was the point, Jesus had said. Everyone deserved a chance to be saved, even the ones who didn't. Not _everyone_ , apparently, Crowley had snapped, bitterly, and Jesus had just smiled like he was doing now. Like he always did. Like he _knew_ something.

 _Ineffable_ , a little voice in the back of Crowley's head whispered. It sounded suspiciously like Aziraphale.

"I am quite hungry, though," Jesus continued, "I'd been rather looking forward to trying the dinner traditionally served in my name." 

He smiled at Gabriel as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Now that the lights were on, Crowley could see him properly: in colour instead of the grainy black-and-white of his night vision. He looked much as he had two thousand years ago, save that in place of a flowing robe, he was wearing faded jeans, a pair dusty workboots, and a blue jumper with a gold menorah picked out on the front. 

"Chag Sameach," Crowley muttered under his breath, and Jesus only smiled wider.

"Well, sure! Of course!" Gabriel said, his grin as bright and brittle as glass, "My thoughts exactly! I'm so hungry I could eat a sandwich!"

He paused, as if waiting for a joke to land. When none of the assembled beings reacted in the slightest, the grin acquired several extra teeth.

"Aziraphale, a word?" He continued, jerking his head violently to one side.

"Yes, yes, right," Aziraphale nodded and turned to address the Son of God, eyes flicking this way and that as if he couldn't tell whether it would be more rude to stare or avoid looking at him altogether.

"Only I'm afraid I sent all of the hotel staff home for the day...we were the only ones here so it seemed cruel to keep them from their families on Christmas Day. I'm sorry to say It'll have to be miracled food."

Aziraphale avoided eating anything that hadn't been painstakingly prepared from scratch, as Crowley had discovered when several boxes of his emergency chocolates had been left noticeably untouched. It just wasn't the same, apparently. Crowley couldn't tell the difference, but he'd been known to eat things that were still alive and squirming, so his palate could hardly be described as refined.

"Not a problem at all. I used to do a nice line in bread and fish myself, back in the day."

"Oh, yes, of course," Aziraphale stammered, "silly me. We'll just get it all sorted then. I'm sure Crowley can help if you need anything in the meantime."

He got up and hurried over to the anxious huddle of archangels, who had marshalled the other angels into orderly rows. All ready to follow orders at the snap of a finger, just like the old days. Aziraphale found his place in neither group, standing off to one side as he explained the logistics of a full Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. 

"So...it's nice to finally meet Aziraphale," Jesus said.

"Never mind that, I've got a bone to pick with you." Crowley hissed, "When the heaven did you get back?"

"Concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only."

"Don't quote Matthew at me; that sanctimonious arse never had an answer for anything."

Jesus laughed. It was bizarre, almost uncomfortable, the way that the Son of God seemed to have a quiet, undying affection for all creatures great and small. Even demons. Even when his followers threw rocks and kicks and insults whenever they thought they could get away with it. The Bible actively encouraged cruelty to demons, after all, so Crowley could hardly hold it against them. See a demon, tell it to fuck off before your soul gets too grubby from incidental contact, that was the general policy. 

It shouldn't be surprising that Jesus Christ gave people the benefit of the doubt, but somehow it was.

"I've been back for about six months, trying to get an idea of the state of the world. Figuring out what to do now it's going to be around for a while."

"She say how long?" Crowley asked, chewing his lip. 

"No. But She seemed extremely amused by the whole affair."

Amused was good. Crowley could work with amused. The Great Plan being some kind of cosmic joke wasn't ideal, but as one of the people who'd delivered the punchline he was glad it had gotten a laugh. 

"Right. Well. Been doing charity work, have you? Building houses for the needy with all those carpentry skills?"

"More or less. It turns out there are a lot of jobs that need doing where nobody questions a man named 'Hay-soos' turning up to help out."

"Of course you'd give your real name, why wouldn't you," Crowley said, shaking his head. "It's not like there are dozens of clandestine organisations who'd love to get their hands on the Son of God for a bit of fun with science. If you thought being crucified was bad, try being vivisected."

Humans were so damned _curious,_ was the thing. There was always an observant little shithead that paid too much attention, and then everyone and their mother had a pitchfork or flaming torch with your name on. Occult or ethereal, it didn't make a difference; Aziraphale had been tried for witchcraft more times than Crowley had. Mostly because Crowley was better at running away and hiding.

"Trust me my friend, most of those people would rather believe aliens are real than believe that Jesus Christ has brown skin."

"Just be careful, alright? I've got enough on my plate with one holy idiot to keep an eye on, I don't need two."

"He seems to have things under control," Jesus said, looking meaningfully in Aziraphale's direction. 

The angel seemed to have suggested a project to the Archangels that had them in a huddle, heads down and voices lowered, while he instructed the lesser angels to do the actual work. Without Gabriel and Sandlephon's meddling and Michael's tendency to issue orders regardless of whether she knew what to do or not, it all seemed to be going rather well. A long table had been erected, festooned with red, gold and green tablecloths, and was in the process of being dressed to within an inch of its life. Only one angel so far had lit himself on fire, and the rest were now treating the festive candles with terrified respect. 

"You'd think so to look at him, wouldn't you? But then he goes and does something like almost getting discorporated over dessert foods and you have to wonder where he was when the survival instincts were being handed out. Eating or reading, probably."

"Sounds like I've missed a lot. When last we spoke you were concerned he might not think of you as a friend at all."

Crowley winced. It had been difficult, back then. Sometimes Aziraphale had been aloof and distant, sometimes friendly and approachable. Talking to him was like walking on quicksand -- one foot wrong and he'd have to spend years digging his way out. And then Aziraphale had found Crowley, drunk and miserable in a Roman pub, and invited him out for a meal. After that everything had sort of _clicked_ , and the rest was literally history.

"Not worried about that, not anymore. Been friends for centuries."

Crowley worried at his lower lip some more, only stopping when he tasted blood.

"He called me his family, y'know," he said, moving on to picking at his black fingernail polish instead. "So I guess he's finally realised he's stuck with me, poor bastard."

"A cruel fate indeed," Jesus laughed, "although perhaps not as cruel as having to sit through the toast the Archangels are writing. According to Mum, Gabriel doesn't know when to stop talking."

"Oh no, oh shit."

Gabriel doing vocal warmups and holding a stack of notes an inch thick. If brevity is the soul of wit, Gabriel was utterly, hopelessly witless.

"No, no, angel, you idiot, why'd you have to give the windbag an excuse to talk us to death?" Crowley muttered to himself.

"Might want to keep the name calling to a minimum," Jesus said, pointing across the room. "Here he comes, now."

He was quite correct: Aziraphale was practically bouncing across the floor towards them in his excitement, framed by the backdrop of a long table practically dripping with a decadent Christmas feast. He was backlight by dozens of flickering candles, and for a second or two Crowley completely forgot that any other beings on the planet existed. He was beautiful. No in an angel-ish way, all heavenly glory and holy light and far too many eyes for comfort, but in a way that was closer to human. He was pink-cheeked enthusiasm and pride in a job well done, and above all he was gloriously, feverishly happy.

"Well, gentlemen. Dinner is served! I hope you're hungry."

Crowley _was_ hungry, he realised, as he followed Aziraphale over to the table. He was fucking starving. He'd never once dared to taste the thing he craved.

But maybe he wouldn't have to be hungry much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to put this one out without running some of it past my wonderful (and very patient) beta, so if you spot mistakes please let me know. :)


	8. Chapter 8

There were little place cards on the table, setting out a seating plan that had Crowley and Aziraphale as far away from the Archangels as possible. Jesus was at the head of the table, with Michael to his right and Gabriel to his left. The other two were seated next to them, one seat removed from the guest of honour. It was a slight that would probably cause tension for millennia to come, despite the physical impossibility of seating all four of them next to one person. There was probably some way to do it, Crowley thought idly, as he watched Michael and Gabriel take their seats. Some sort of cross shaped table might work? A bit on the nose, though, even for them.

He sat down on the unnecessarily uncomfortable chair he'd been assigned, which had no room in it for a nice semi-horizontal slouch. Angelic posture was alright if you only put on your corporation for occasional day trips, but Crowley's was six thousand years old and very much wanted to be a snake. Doubly so when he was stressed. And in spite of whatever weird protection Aziraphale had invoked to get him into this godforsaken party, being surrounded by angels and archangels made him very stressed indeed. Beneath his sunglasses, the yellow had spread all the way to the corners of his eyes despite his best efforts to rein it in. If he wasn't careful his tongue would start misbehaving, flickering out to taste the air without his permission.

At least the air would taste good. The table was practically groaning with food: turkey and ham and bowls and bowls of vegetables. Too many vegetables for Aziraphale's usual taste, but a little bit of carrot or parsnip was probably a nice, bland starter food for an angel that had never eaten before. The first time Crowley had eaten, a sneaky little taste of a grape back in the Garden, he'd almost passed out from the overload of sensation. It would be a sight to see when the angels figured out what the gravy was for.

Crowley reached out to pour himself a glass of water to settle his nerves, only to send the entire jug toppling when an angelic hand closed firmly around his shoulder. Not Aziraphale, who gasped and pulled back from the table as the water hit his lap. A quick miracle reversed the tide and dried out the angel, but now every single pair of eyes in the room was staring at him. 

"Whoops," Crowley said. 

The hand belonged to Michael, who hauled him up out of his seat with a frustrated tutting sound.

"Your presence has been requested at the head of the table," she said through gritted teeth, dragging Crowley away from the table.

"Unhand him this instant! There's no reason to treat him like that!" Aziraphale snapped, only just stopping himself from grabbing hold of Michael's arm as she frog-marched Crowley to the other end of the room. "He's a guest! _My_ guest!"

"He is here on sufferance," she hissed.

"Need I remind you that he holds a piece of an angel's soul."

Michael stopped in her tracks, wheeling around to face Aziraphale and dragging an unresisting Crowley along with her.

"A pathetic excuse for an angel! If he is your [----] _Principality_ , all that means is that you were stupid enough to let him taint you in return."

He was being marched forward again as Aziraphale protested Michael's rough handling, vaguely aware that he should be saying something to the creature who had the temerity to say something so cruel to his angel. Letting his fist do the talking would be an even better option, but his brain had packed its bags and left for a much-needed holiday as soon as it heard the words _'a piece of an angel's soul'_. He was on his own, no assistance there.

Aziraphale had told Michael he had a _piece of his soul_. Had told _everyone_ that he, Crowley, had a _piece of Aziraphale's soul._

Everyone except Crowley.

He couldn't decide if the worst part was knowing it was a lie or wishing fervently that it was true.

And now he was being ushered towards an interminable meal with a bunch of people he hated, who all thought he and Aziraphale were soul-married when they'd only just gotten as far as holding hands.

It was too much. Too much to deal with sober, at the very least. All there was on the table was water, and while Jesus might be up for transmuting it into wine for a laugh, he would almost certainly not be on board with turning into hard liquor so that Crowley could get smashed.

"You know what," he said, wrenching his arm out of Michael's grip. "M'not feeling so good. Got a blinding headache all of a sudden."

"Are you alright, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, wide eyed with worry. "Did you drink any of the water? I checked it, I promise I did, it isn't holy in the slightest."

"No, no, s'not that. Must just be all the general holinesss from being around so many angels. Just need to step out for some fresh air."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

Aziraphale had a familiar look in his eyes, the one that would get Crowley to do anything and everything just to make it go away, so he tore his eyes away. 

"Yeah. Back soon. Well done for…" he waved a hand at the table, at the Archangels sitting peacefully, preparing to eat a nice meal as a family on Christmas Day. At the group of dangerous idiots that Aziraphale had fooled into allowing a demon in their midst.

At the clever, painful lie of it all.

"...all of this."

And with that, Crowley walked away from his angel and didn't look back.

***

He didn't step out for some fresh air. Instead Crowley passed the abandoned reception desk and headed on toward the double doors of the closed hotel bar. He slipped past the locked door as easily as breathing, insinuating himself into the darkness like a only a demon could. Crowley had never gone in for lurking, not really, but once you got the knack of it, it never really went away. Strutting around as though he owned the entire world was fine for when he wanted to be noticed, but dressing like a gothic rockstar was also good for melting into the darkness whenever he felt like it. He felt dismal, like this godforsaken bar, which was crowded with drooping leather sofas and sad little round tables. It had alcohol, at least. There was a metal shutter over the bar, but that was no more of an obstacle than the door. Crowley snapped his fingers and it rattled up into the ceiling, revealing a motley assortment of wines and spirits. Somewhere an alarm thought better of disturbing the Christmas Day silence.

"Drambuie, really?" Crowley hissed under his breath, "Midori, Dooley's, Tia fucking Maria, bloody Chambord, doesn't this place have any normal alcohol?"

At the back, behind all the novelty liqueurs, was a half-empty bottle of Bells whisky. Crowley pulled it out, went to grab a glass, and then thought better of it and took a swig instead. It burned a little, but not unpleasantly.

"Stupid, clever angel," he muttered, looking at his confused reflection in the dusty mirror behind the shelf of bottles over the bar. His own face stared back: pale and wan and miserable.

Aziraphale had told everyone they were soul bonded for life as a cover, just like that. As easy as pie. It had been to protect him from the Archangels' scorn, admittedly, and to keep them from giving the holy water another try, but still. It stung to have something like that dangled in his face as a cheap, meaningless lie.

He knew, on a rational level, that Aziraphale cared about him. The angel had said he was family, the only person he could trust and rely on. They had more shared history than any two beings still walking the planet. Aziraphale had stood up to the _Archangel Gabriel_ and told him, to his face, to treat a demon with respect.

In the gloom of the darkened bar, Crowley allowed himself a little smile along with his sip of whisky.

So, Yeah. They were close, that was undeniable. He loved Aziraphale with all of his heart and soul and there was a good chance that, on some level, Aziraphale loved him too. You didn't risk certain death for someone you thought of as just a friendly acquaintance. But they didn't have some cosmic connection, they didn't have this thing that he couldn't even get his brain to translate. This soul sharing that presumably bound angels together for eternity. Their friendship wasn't sacred or perfect or ordained by God, quite the opposite. It was pure coincidence they'd even met in the first place, and after that...they just. Liked each other. Hung out a lot. Had arguments and told stupid stories and got drunk together. Went to the park when it was sunny and the theatre when it rained, and sat in the cozy softness of the bookshop when they couldn't be bothered to go out.

What they had was _everything_ to Crowley, but maybe it wasn't enough for Aziraphale. Maybe it would never be enough.

He took another long drag on the whisky. Did Aziraphale want some kind of soul-bond? Was this a ham-fisted way of asking for one? Crowley vaguely remembered Aziraphale's wavering phantom saying that they'd probably explode if they tried anything like it. Angels and demons were oil and water: they didn't mix. No wonder the Archangels had been so surprised. 

The sound of someone stubbing their toe on a sofa startled him out of his alcohol-laced introspection. Crowley realised he'd been careless; there was an angel here, he could feel it, but it wasn't Aziraphale.

"I always forget your lot can't see in the dark," he said.

Nobody answered, but Crowley could recognize the guilty silence of someone who'd been caught doing something they shouldn't.

"And that you're totally rubbish at being stealthy. Just come out, would you? I can't be bothered to pretend you aren't there and it's no fun drinking with an audience."

A small ball of heavenly light appeared, lighting the way for the Archangel Uriel. Crowley fought back a laugh. They was still dressed in their Christmas outfit of head-to-toe gold, reflecting their conjured light like a disco ball. Not the best outfit for spying.

With a pained expression, Crowley gestured to the barstool next to his.

"I haven't forgotten you tried to execute him, just so you know. Never going to forget that. But I'm not about to tempt you to try it again, so go ahead, sit down if you want. I'm not moving."

Uriel looked down their nose at him, one eyebrow raised at the almost-empty bottle of whisky in his hand. They did not sit down.

"This is my booze," he clarified, "you can drink the flipping Chambord if you want something. It's sweet as all Heaven and the bottle looks sort of like a holy hand grenade, should be right up your street."

"We do not sully the temple of our bodies--"

"--with _gross matter_ , yeah. Aziraphale said that was the party line these days. He spent all that time and effort putting a great big bloody dinner together and you weren't even going to try anything, were you? Typical. S'never done him any harm, you don't know what you're missing."

Uriel frowned, clearly unused to being interrupted. Maybe in Heaven people hung on their every word, but they were on Earth now. Plus, Crowley was a demon and a somewhat drunk one to boot, so he categorically didn't give a shit.

"Whaddaya want," he asked. 

"Nothing from you, demon. I'm simply here to keep you from causing trouble while you are out of Aziraphale's supervision."

"Great. Fantastic drinking buddy you'll be." 

Crowley went back to paying attention to his bottle instead of the irritating golden presence at his side, standing a little too close for comfort. Uriel seemed like they wanted to say something, but Crowley was hoping that talking to a demon was too much like lowering themselves to be worth bothering with. The whisky was improving with each swig, in spite of the company.

"Aziraphale claimed you as his [----]," the archangel said, eventually, in a voice that dripped with scorn, "he lied. He might have fooled the others but he didn't fool me."

Crowley sighed. 

"So what if he lied. Does it matter? You going to kill me?"

"No. You were promised safety, and unlike Hell, Heaven keeps its promises."

"Brilliant. How about you promise to bugger off, then."

Uriel slammed a hand down on the bar, hard enough to rattle the rack of wine glasses hanging overhead. 

"How dare you make a mockery of this? The bond is sacred! You can't just waltz around holding hands and pretending!"

"Ugh." Crowley finished off the bottle and chucked it overarm into the glass recycling bin behind the counter. "Why do you even care?"

"Because I know what it's like to have a [----] and lose one," the archangel hissed, "and I won't tolerate you playing at it as if it means nothing."

They were shaking, Crowley realised, fist clenched hard enough to draw blood with those impeccable nails if their corporation was closer to human. A tear rolled down one perfect cheek and landed with a wet little splat on the bar.

"Shit. I'm sorry," he said, which was a surprise because he hadn't meant to. Even more of a surprise was that it was true.

"What?"

Uriel's eyes were like saucers, shocked and shining in the heavenly glow.

"I said I'm sorry. That must've been horrible."

He shuddered as the memory of his last solo binge-drinking session resurfaced, back when the bottom had just fallen out of his world. If Aziraphale was gone, he'd thought, what was the point of anything? 

"Yes. It was."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" He said, when the archangel didn't seem like they were about to go anywhere, "I dunno why you would but you seem like you might? I mean, I don't know. S'none of my business. Forget I said anything."

After a long silence, during which Crowley sorely missed having something bottle-shaped to distract himself with, Uriel spoke.

"They fell. I don't know what happened to them after that."

"Oh. Sorry. I'd ask for a name so I could find out for you, but, y'know. It'll be different now."

"Why would you even offer? What's in it for you?"

They were frowning now, deeply suspicious of a demon offering assistance. Crowley shrugged.

"Why not? Any defining features might help. Weird eyes. Green hair. Inordinate fondness for beetles. That kind of thing."

"And what would you do with that information?"

"Not much, probably. Not on the best terms with the other demons right now. I could ask the next one that comes to try and kill me if you like."

Uriel shook their head. 

"No. They're gone. I want to remember them how they were, not as some twisted shadow."

"Cheers," said Crowley, bitterly, "I mean that's incredibly stupid, they're almost certainly still alive somewhere, but it's your funeral."

A brief flash of rage lit Uriel's dark eyes, and in that moment Crowley was afraid. Archangels were lightning, barely contained in a human-like shell, God's wrath in its most potent form. Suddenly, calling one an idiot didn't seem like the brightest idea.

But then it faded, replaced with bitter sadness.

"They had silver hair," they said. "Eyes like a storm before the rain breaks. They forged the iron core of the Earth itself."

"Right. Er. I'll see what I can do. They might not remember too much from before the fall, I'm afraid."

Uriel shook their head.

"That doesn't matter, I…"

Whatever they were about to say was lost forever when the door to the bar flew open in a gust of holy rage.

"Get away from him!" Aziraphale shouted, "Don't you dare harm him!"


	9. Chapter 9

Aziraphale's voice was high and panicky, his hands balled tightly into fists as he strode across the room. If the archangels were lightning in a bottle, cosmic power barely constrained by human form, then Aziraphale was all the terrified power of humanity when pushed to its limit. Humans were soft, squishy things, but they could lift cars or fight off bears if they were scared enough. And right now, Aziraphale looked absolutely petrified. There was a glow coming from within him, a holy fire that threatened to consume anything that stood in its way, and if Crowley hadn't been so worried Aziraphale might deck an archangel he would've been deeply impressed and not a little bit aroused.

"Stop, stop, angel! It's fine, everything's fine, alright?" He called out, leaning back on the barstool so the avenging angel could see that it was true.

"Uriel here was just was checking I hadn't been putting the wiles about. Which was, y'know, completely unneccesary. So they were just leaving," he added, furtively shooing the archangel away.

"Yes. I was just leaving," said Uriel stiffly.

"Well. Good." said Aziraphale, toning down his righteous glow from blinding to retina-searing, "You had better get to it, then. Quick sharp if you please, no dilly-dallying around."

Aziraphale hovered at Crowley's elbow, putting himself between archangel and demon, and stared at Uriel with cold, hard eyes. Uriel looked like they might object to being ordered about by a mere Principality, but Crowley's frantic head shaking seemed to do the trick of convincing them to let it go. 

Uriel turned on their heel and marched out of the room, taking their ball of holy light with them. Aziraphale, his internal glow fading to the barest whisper of light, didn’t summon any of his own to replace it. Instead, he settled onto the barstool next to Crowley and put his head in his hands. 

“Are you alright? Really alright?” he asked, softly. 

“I’m fine. Er. Are you?”

Guilt churned Crowley’s stomach as he watched Aziraphale’s shuddering breaths. Stupid, stupid, he hadn't thought of how worried Aziraphale would be. He put a hand on the angel’s back and began to rub softly at the velvet of his waistcoat. 

“I have been better.”

“Sorry,” said Crowley. 

He'd done this kind of shit before; run off to lick his wounds in private without thinking for a second about the consequences. This time wasn't anywhere near as bad as sleeping for half a century over a tiff in the park, but it was still awful. Aziraphale deserved better.

“Shouldn’t have run off. Shouldn't have left you with them. It was stupid.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, leaning back into Crowley's hand as it made endless soothing circles.

"Do you mind if I ask why you're in here drinking in the dark?" 

"Ehhh...I'd rather you didn't."

Aziraphale looked at him, one eye peeking out between his fingers. Crowley didn't need to see them both to know he wasn't going to get away with that.

"Look, it's stupid. Barely worth bothering with. Let's just go back in, Gabriel's got to be at least a quarter of the way through his toast by now."

"My dear, you are getting drunk in the most depressing bar I have ever had the misfortune to set foot in. In the dark. By yourself. Please don't take me for a fool."

"Never," Crowley said, swallowing thickly. "Listen. You it's about that word, the one you called me? The...soul thingy."

"You mean...when I referred to you as my [----]?" Aziraphale said, sitting up straighter on his stool.

"Yeah, look, just listen. The thing is. The thing with that blessed word _is_ , I can't hear it."

A look of horrified realisation spread across Aziraphale's face. It spread itself properly, right into all the corners.

"You _can't hear it_? At all? Why?"

"Nope. Not even a little bit. It just sounds like a weird noise, like my brain doesn't know what to do with it. I assume it's because it's an angel thing. You don't get to keep that stuff, afterward. It's not part of the severance package."

He stressed the "severance" harder than intended and cursed himself at the pained expression on Aziraphale's face. He never should have told him what falling did to an angel, particularly the bit about the wings.

"Oh, Crowley. I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault, is it?" Crowley hissed. "You didn't _push_ me. Stop apologising for things that aren't your fault."

"Yes. Right. I just meant…I'm sorry for what they have taken from you, my dear."

"Pft. I'm used to it by now. S'not that bad."

 _I lost my stupid halo_ , he thought, _but I got you. I don't want anything else_.

Aziraphale wrung his hands together, clasping at himself where he'd never been able to reach for anyone else. 

"So that means, when I said it…"

"Hadn't the foggiest. Not a clue. Could've meant I was your landlord or your sex slave for all I knew. I'm guessing it's neither of those things, unless angelic landlords charge an extremely steep deposit."

"Oh dear."

He spoke so softly, so sadly, that Crowley's heart nearly broke in two. 

"It's fine, honestly. Not a big deal."

"My dear boy. None of that, please. I owe you an explanation."

Crowley sat in silence, waiting for Aziraphale to speak. It was a long wait. Aziraphale seemed to be working himself up to something, fiddling anxiously with his ring, his watch and a discarded beermat while he marshalled his thoughts. When the beermat had been thoroughly shredded, Crowley took his hand and stilled it.

"Aziraphale, what does it mean? I mean really. I've got some idea but I think I need to hear it from you," he said as gently as he could.

"It's an angel thing, like you said. I'm trying to think of how to explain it properly."

Crowley squeezed his hand. Aziraphale sighed.

"I suppose it translates roughly as 'memory keeper'," Aziraphale said, eventually. "Although it's rather more than that. When everything was being built, before anything really existed yet, some angels found they worked especially well together, so they shared a bit of themselves. It wasn't always easy to find one another, you see. So they gave a little piece of their soul to the other angel so they'd always know how to find them in the vast infinity of creation. At the time It didn't seem much more significant than one of those tokens humans give to each other, you know the ones?"

"Best friend necklaces," said Crowley, dryly.

"Well, not exactly. But that sort of thing. An extra bit of harmony between two angels that made the whole of creation sing a little sweeter."

Crowley made an incredulous noise, glad he'd forgotten what a cosmic love-in the first part of creation had been. Bloody hippies, the lot of them.

"But then there was the rebellion, and the war, and the fall. None of it broke the bond. And not every pair ended up on the same side."

"Ouch."

All the newly-minted demons had been screaming, after, as their souls warped and twisted into something new. Crowley had been no exception. But he'd never heard any of them complain of a missing piece of themselves or scream at the betrayal of an angel who would take a piece of their soul but not stand at their side. Demons didn't remember, then, or if they did they kept that pain inside where no-one could use it against them. 

"Yes. It was...a difficult time. Lots of weeping and gnashing of teeth."

Aziraphale was picking at a loose thread in his waistcoat now, using his free hand to damage something he'd worked so hard to preserve. Worried again, sad. Like he'd lost something.

"Wait." Crowley tried to push down the hot, screaming tide of panic rising in his chest. "Are you saying. You're _not_ saying you knew me _before_ , are you? That _we_ were…"

He'd lived and relived the memory of the first time he met Aziraphale so many times it felt almost like a movie, like it had happened to someone else. There'd been no recognition in Aziraphale's eyes, nothing to suggest they'd ever met before. But...for an angel Aziraphale was ironically proficient at lying. He'd asked for Crowley's name, but he hadn't been named Crawly when he was an angel. 

"No! No, no, Crowley, of course not," Aziraphale cried, turning to grasp Crowley's other hand in a vice-like grip, "I promise you, my dear, we'd never met before Eden."

Crowley examined his face for any traces of untruth. Mercifully, he came up empty. All he could see in Aziraphale's eyes was fear and hope and a shining film of unshed tears.

"That had better be true, angel, 'cause if it turns out you were only ever friends with me...only kept me around because I used to be your cosmic bestie in another life, I'll...I dunno what I'll do. Get even more pissed, probably. Sleep for a few centuries and see if there's any world left to wake up to."

"It's true, I swear it. On my bookshop, I swear it."

"If it's not, I will shred the Wilde. All of it. Starting with the first editions."

Aziraphale gasped at the very idea before nodding solemnly. 

"Of course, my dear."

"So we didn't meet before. And I don't remember giving you a piece of my soul any time since then, so why the Hell did you tell Gabriel and all the others we were...like that."

"I panicked!" said Aziraphale, guiltily. "They threatened you, Crowley! It was the only thing I could think of that would force them to allow you to stay."

Crowley felt his stomach curl in on itself as the tiny shred of hope he hadn't realised he was holding on to was crushed under the heel of Aziraphale's sensible shoe. The angel was so clever, of course he'd been able to come up with a lie that would satisfy the Archangels. Of course there wasn't anything more to it than that.

"Right. Well done, quick thinking," he muttered.

"Um. Thank you."

Crowley looked down at his shoes so he didn't have to look at Aziraphale.

"Look, can we just go back to London? I'm not really feeling the Christmas spirit, angel."

He slid out of his seat, letting Aziraphale's hands fall and embarking on a slightly wobbly journey over to the door. There was no way he'd go near the Bentley with even the slightest hint of alcohol in his system, but that was a problem for later, when he'd navigated the maze of sofas and vomit-inducing carpeting that stood between him and freedom. He had one foot poised to climb over the last of the leathery hurdles when he realised Aziraphale was still sitting at the bar.

"Angel?"

"Mmhmm," Aziraphale said.

"Are you coming or what?"

And then the tears began to flow down Aziraphale's face, and the sobs began to shake his body, and Crowley was vaulting over sofas without even seeing them. All he could see was Aziraphale, hunched over and shaking, his head cradled in his hands.

"Oh, angel, no. No crying," he said, uselessly.

Aziraphale pulled his arms tight around himself and sobbed even harder. 

"Shit, shit, please stop. Whatever I said, I'm sorry."

He put a trembling hand on his angel's shoulder and tried to unravel him from the tight little ball he'd folded himself into. Aziraphale resisted. 

"I dunno what to do here," Crowley said, mostly to himself.

There was one thing he could do, one thing he'd never had the courage to try in all the long centuries they'd known one another, and that was to wrap Aziraphale in his arms and hold him tight. And so, because there was nothing to lose by trying, he did.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale sniffed, "what are you doing?"

"Hugging. M'probably bad at it. Too many sharp bits."

Aziraphale laughed wetly, and then took a couple of deep breaths until his back was rising and falling steadily against Crowley's chest. It was strange, feeling the life flow through the angel's corporation -- the oxygen his body didn't need and the heartbeat that was merely for decoration. But they were real, nonetheless. As real as Aziraphale's tears, or his smile, or his laugh. All part of what made him _him_.

"I have always been a coward, Crowley," Aziraphale said, shakily, once the tears had stopped coming.

"Hmm? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just. Let me talk, please, my dear. I am a coward. I've let things happen that should never have been allowed to happen. I've lied and betrayed and hurt people. For Heaven's sake, I almost rolled over and let those insane people in there destroy the entire world."

"Yeah, but you didn't." Crowley thought of children crying as the waters rose, of Aziraphale's eyes brimming with tears. "And you couldn't have stopped any of that stuff, either. All that would've happened is that they'd have yanked you back up to Heaven and sent some unfeeling arsehole as a replacement."

"In short," Aziraphale continued, ignoring him, "I am a terrible angel. And worse than that, I've been a terrible friend to you."

"Bollocks," said Crowley, more loudly than he intended. "You're my best friend. And you're the _best_ angel. Fuck the rest of them."

"Oh, Crowley, you can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

Aziraphale twisted in his seat and put both of his arms around Crowley, a fierce hug that squeezed all of the air out of his lungs.

"Because I don't deserve it," he whispered against Crowley's shirt.

"Angel, look at me," he said, pulling back so Aziraphale could lift his head. He was pink and blotchy, eyes still shining with tears. He was beautiful. 

"You must know by now, there's no way you'd be dense enough to miss it. I mean, I've followed you around for six thousand years."

Aziraphale tried to look away, but Crowley steadied him with a hand on his cheek.

"I love you, angel," he said, simply.

There wasn't anything else to say.

Aziraphale didn’t smile, didn’t do anything that indicated he’d heard what Crowley had said. Around Crowley’s middle, his arms went slack.

“Could you sober up for me please, Crowley,” he said quietly.

And there it was, Crowley thought, the rejection that had been coming for over a thousand years, ever since the knowledge that he’d one day have to come out and say it solidified in his brain. Before that, before the Arrangement had thrust them into each other’s space so efficiently, he’d always thought he’d just let it sit like a stone in his chest. A dead thing he could keep buried. 

“Sure,” he sighed, and returned the whisky to its bottle. 

The aftertaste of being un-drunk was always unpleasant, but this time it had the horrible kicker of Aziraphale looking up at him with sorrowful eyes. 

“Crowley, please tell me. Did you mean it?” 

“What kind of a question is that? ‘Course I meant it. I’ve always meant it, even when I couldn't say it. S'been thousands of bloody years.”

“Oh,” he said, breathlessly, “I’m so glad.”

This time, Aziraphale’s face split in a tearful grin. 

“My darling. How brave you are.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered, automatically.

Aziraphale looking at him like that, as if there was nothing in the universe so fine as him, was everything he’d ever wanted and also far, far too intense. 

“You are. You are the bravest creature in all of creation, saying the very thing I’ve been trying to put into words ever since the Ritz.”

“You what?”

He thought back to the evening after the end that didn't come, when they’d drunk champagne in the soft glow of the backroom and Aziraphale had lost the thread of the conversation at least a dozen times. 

"I was going to tell you then, honestly. But I just... couldn't get it to come out. I hope you can forgive me for making you wait."

Crowley couldn't resist a little smile, a little of their usual back-and-forth.

"Technically, I'm still waiting."

"So you are! My dear, I've loved you for longer than I could ever let myself admit. You're so much more than I deserve and I've treated you so abominably."

"Give over, angel. None of that. You were trapped and now you’re free. Don't you think you've earned the right to be happy? Not to mention the fact that I've had to stop you physically assaulting an Archangel twice in the past twenty-four hours. Seems pretty brave to me." 

Aziraphale laughed, wiping his face with the cuff of his shirt. That wouldn’t do at all, so Crowley summoned one of the angel’s old magician’s handkerchiefs; a great big thing covered with polka dots. It was met with the knowing smile he expected, the one he loved the most. 

“I’m a mess,” said Aziraphale, and took a big, honking blow on the handkerchief.

“You are, a bit.” 

That earned him an affectionate glare that made his heart soar. 

"Would you mind if we went back to our room so I can wash my face?" Aziraphale asked tentatively. "I could sort myself out with a miracle, I suppose, but it never feels the same."

"Lead the way, angel."

As they left, Crowley re-locked the shutter with a snap and left a few crisp ten-pound notes in the till, and another one in the tip jar. 

Maybe he was feeling the Christmas spirit after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!
> 
> Obviously I didn't get this finished like I intended, so sorry about that! I will try and get it all done before New year's.
> 
> Also sorry if this chapter has mistakes, I'm posting it late and I've had cider ;)
> 
> I changed the order of how the whole thing would go at around the chapter 5 mark so that's why it isn't all done. Thanks for your patience!


	10. Chapter 10

As they neared the room, Crowley was hit with the realisation that they’d enter it in a completely different context than they’d left it. They'd left as friends, returned as something else, and Crowley had no idea what it was. Friends, yes. Family, definitely. And now something new. It was undeniably thrilling to reach out and open the door for Aziraphale, dizzy with the prospect of finding out. 

The angel headed straight into the bathroom, eager to wash his face. There was probably a bottle of his favourite apricot facial scrub in there, not to mention towels softer than Heaven itself. Aziraphale would probably be in there for a while. Crowley sat down on the bed and attempted to gather his thoughts, which were eagerly some of the forbidden, explicit corners of his mind. Or maybe not exactly forbidden, not anymore. Aziraphale was an angel, yes, but he was the most hedonistic angel in all of creation. He was sitting on their bed, in their shared hotel room. He wondered what that meant. 

Possibly nothing. There was always the chance that Aziraphale's Earthly passions only ran as deep as caviar and a nice Champagne. Aziraphale loved him, that was the important thing--the impossible, unthinkable thing. The problem was that Crowley had no idea what it _meant_.

“Ah, that’s much better.” 

Aziraphale emerged, his face fresh and shining. He was back to his usual radiant self, beautiful as always, but Crowley only had eyes for one thing: the angel's waistcoat was gone. On a rational level he knew it was probably just to keep it from getting splashed, but on all the other levels his brain began to short circuit. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale in fewer than a half-dozen layers for thousands of years. 

“Now, I think we need to have a little chat before we go back downstairs," Aziraphale said, cheerily.

The angel lowered himself onto the mattress next to Crowley, and that was it. Six thousand years of watching and longing and never, _ever_ talking about it, and Aziraphale was brushing it off as if it was nothing. Not only that, but he'd stripped down to just a shirt and joined Crowley on their _bed_. Something inside him, long pulled taut to breaking point, finally snapped.

“Angel, what the everlasting, ineffable fuck is that supposed to mean?! You want to have a _little chat_? You can’t just go saying that you _love me_ and then act all calm like everything’s normal!”

“I’m sorry? You said it first! Would you rather I panic or get angry?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know, do I? Just maybe acknowledge that it’s a big deal, yeah?"

Aziraphale was smiling at him, amused, eyes sparkling. 

“It’s a big deal, my darling. Of course it is. But we’ve both felt this way for a long time, haven’t we?”

“You have no idea.” 

“I think...I do.”

“Look, I know I’m being stupid, okay? I know it’s just you and me and it’ll be fine, right? But angel, I don’t know what’s going on.”

“How do you mean?” said Aziraphale, frowning.

Crowley groaned and got to his feet, pacing back and forth across the ugly carpet. If he wore a hole in it, it could only be an improvement. 

“Do you love me like you love pastries and first editions? Like a brother? A friend? Something else? I have no Earthly idea what you want me to do with this information! Do you want me to hug you? Kiss you? Keep my distance like I usually do because I’m afraid if I touch you--”

“--Yes!” Aziraphale squeaked.

“You...want me to stay away?”

“No, you idiot, the other one!”

“...Hug you?” Crowley guessed, freezing in place where he stood.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Aziraphale, and then there was no more talking because the angel had pressed his lips to Crowley’s with all the enthusiasm of a thousand years of repressed longing. His technique wasn’t great, but it hardly mattered. When you’ve been dreaming of a kiss for millennia and then it _actually happens_ , the result will always be the most memorable, intense and wonderful kiss of your life--even if your life to date has been over six thousand years.

Or, at least, until the next one. And the next.

“That does clear things up somewhat,” said Crowley, out of breath and with Aziraphale’s hand tangled in his hair. At some point his own hands had ended up nestled at the angel’s waist, fingers itching to tug the shirt out of the waistband of his trousers. He’d restrained himself, just about.

“Well, I would certainly hope so. Listen, dear, do try not to worry. We have all the time we need to figure things out.”

“S’pose you’re right. Lucky for us, eh? It’s taken quite a while just to get here.”

He pressed his face to Aziraphale’s neck and breathed in the scent of soap and skin and angel. 

"Crowley, dear, would you come and join me on the bed?" 

"Er," Crowley cleared his throat, glad Aziraphale couldn't see the blush climbing up his throat. 

"Oh, good heavens, not for that! Not _here_. My dear boy, I do not want that particular cherished memory to be of a shabby hotel in Swindon."

"Cherished?" 

"Absolutely, darling. I intend to cherish you quite thoroughly."

"Right. Good. Yep."

Crowley let himself be led over to the bed, where he sat down next to Aziraphale. It was weird, being so close, being allowed to put an arm around his angel and having Aziraphale lean contentedly against him.

"Well, I have to admit that rather took care of most of the things I wanted to say," Aziraphale said, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. "Was there anything you wanted to ask me? I don't want you getting any silly ideas due to a lack of communication on my part."

Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Been reading those bloody self-help books again, haven't you?"

"Communication is very important, Crowley."

Crowley wanted to just stay like this until morning, wrapped around his warm angel in the soft privacy of their room, but there was something niggling at the back of his mind; a stupid, nagging little doubt that would grow if he let it. It was unreasonable and unfair, but he had to know.

"’Ziraphale? Back in Heaven. You didn't. There wasn't?"

Crowley swallowed, throat dry even though he never usually had to concentrate on making his corporation salivate. The damned thing usually did as it was told, but this evening it seemed to have a mind of its own. He screwed his eyes shut so he couldn’t see the betrayal on Aziraphale’s face.

“You didn’t have one of those soul-things, did you? Not that I mind or anything, you’re your own angel, none of my business, is it? Just, y’know. Curious, is all.”

Aziraphale started shaking, and for a second Crowley thought he'd made a mess of things already. Instead, he almost passed out from relief when the angel burst out laughing.

"Hah! Oh, dear me, no! I can’t say it ever appealed, if I’m being honest. The other angels were all very...single minded. Terrible conversationalists, unless you enjoy discussing the finer points of sand-grain geometry or grass blade texturing.”

“Not what gets your motor running?”

Aziraphale laughed again and poked him in the ribs. 

“Foul fiend,” he said affectionately. “Why do you want to know, my dear?”

“Eh, just something the archangel said.”

“Uriel?”

“Yeah. They had one, apparently. One that fell.”

“Oh. How frightfully sad.”

Crowley frowned. Aziraphale looked so sad, as if he’d lost one of his favourite Edwardian silver teaspoons.

“Let me get this straight. You feel sorry for your would-be executioner?”

“Well, less so than I did, now that you mention it. But still.”

Now that Crowley was sober, there was no way he’d ever admit to feeling the same way. But there had been a gnawing emptiness in Uriel's eyes that had pulled him in, a deep pain that had never healed.

“Is it really such a big deal, this soul-bond business?” he asked, nervously.

If Aziraphale said yes, if it was as Earth-shattering and life-changing as it sounded like it was, then trying to hold on to him was dooming the angel to a life without it. There was no way Crowley could ever give Aziraphale a piece of his grimy, tarnished excuse for a soul to keep inside himself, even if it was physically possible. Trying might kill one or both of them. Succeeding would mean Aziraphale was saddled with his pain and anxiety for the rest of eternity.

But then Aziraphale smiled at him, beautiful and radiant with his halo of golden curls.

"It used to be, certainly. But that was before there was any concept of disharmony in the spheres. A lot of those who bonded suffered an extremely rude awakening once the Rebellion began. And, if I'm being honest, my dear, it was all a bit juvenile."

Crowley let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, quite involuntarily. 

"Juvenile? What d'you mean?"

"Well, you remember what everyone was like back then, generally speaking?"

"Yeah. Insufferable."

As far as Crowley was concerned, none of the angels back then had been interesting in the slightest. They all had their jobs to do and they all seemed so bloody happy to be doing them that they never paid attention to Crowley's attempts at conversation. Worse still, some of them told him off for asking perfectly reasonable questions, like "What's for lunch?" or "Have you heard about the cool-looking planet She's building?" or "Doesn't there have to be more to it than just...this?"

He'd liked building stars. He'd been good at it. But he didn't love it the way he loved Earth or his Bentley. Or the angel sitting next to him, gazing up at him as if he'd hung every last star in the sky rather than just a few (very aesthetically pleasing) constellations.

"Quite so. It's very easy to find a like-minded companion when nobody truly has a mind of their own. You were brave enough to fight for one, my dear. It took the rest of us much longer, I'm ashamed to say."

"Er. I didn't exactly do any fighting. I hid, mostly."

Surprisingly, the admission that he'd been a coward all those centuries ago only made Aziraphale smile wider.

"Forming the bond doesn't take hardship or time or investment, it doesn't take _work_. I'm sure it feels very deep and meaningful to them, but watching the humans has shown me that relationships like that seldom work out."

He brushed a stray bit of Crowley's hair away from his face with a gentle hand. 

"That and experiencing all the highs and lows of love for myself," he said, softly. 

"Fuck, angel," Crowley said, flopping back onto the bed so he didn't have to meet Aziraphale's loving, trusting gaze. "You can't just say things like that."

"I can and I shall."

Crowley rolled over and wrapped himself around Aziraphale, his face pressed into the angel's side and his arms around his soft middle. The reality of being able to touch, to hold, to coil himself around Aziraphale as if he was a nice, warm tree branch hadn't sunk in yet. It was like a dream, and oh, there had been so many dreams that were just like this. Curled up with Aziraphale in the warm sanctuary of a bed, face pressed into angelic softness. He would've been worried all of this wasn't real, if it wasn't for their surroundings. There was no way his subconscious would fantasize about Swindon.

He lay there while Aziraphale stoked his hair, letting all of his worries melt away. 

"Would...would it be something you wanted, my dear?"

"Hmm?"

"The bonding. Would you like to? With me, I mean."

Crowley opened one yellow eye.

"Didn't you just say it was juvenile?"

"For them, my dear, not for us. We know each other, darling. Wholly and completely. All the good, all the bad. I would be honoured to give you a piece of myself, if you'd have me."

Crowley sat up sharply.

"If I'd have you? Of course I'd have you! We can't, though. What happened to us 'probably exploding' if we tried anything like that?"

The tips of Aziraphale's ears turned pink. 

"That was before we, well. You remember." He made a little back and forth motion between them, indicating the transference of their essences into each other's bodies. "I'm almost certain we aren't incompatible, dear. In fact, I'd say quite the opposite."

Crowley swallowed and shook his head.

"Nah. No offense, angel, but it's not a good idea."

"Why?" 

Aziraphale was frowning at him, but it was a soft sort of frown. Not disappointed, not angry, just concerned.

"It just isn't. Demon, remember? My soul's all...messed up. It might hurt you."

 _I might hurt you_ , he thought, _and I'd never forgive myself._

Aziraphale raised their linked hands and pressed a kiss to Crowley's knuckles. 

"I _know_ you, you old serpent. I love you. You are the most wonderful, infuriating creature I've ever met, and I'm so lucky that you put up with me. No part of you could ever hurt me."

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, quietly, "are you soul-proposing to me in this horrible hotel room?"

"Do you know, I think I am?" Aziraphale laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments on this! I can be a bit shy about replying but every one has been read and re-read <3
> 
> I hope you're having a nice Boxing Day!


	11. Chapter 11

"What happened to 'we're not doing this here'?" Crowley asked, as he let Aziraphale guide him down onto the bed. Lying next to an angel, so close he couldn't even focus on his face properly, felt like blasphemy. Which was stupid, really, considering the way Aziraphale had been snogging his face off a few minutes ago.

"This is different, my dear. This isn't something we can savour, something we can draw out for hours and hours until we can't take anymore."

Aziraphale was smiling wickedly, eyes dancing with amusement beneath his golden eyelashes.

"Ngh," Crowley replied, uselessly. 

It wasn't what he'd planned to say. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"Not at all," Aziraphale laughed.

"Well you're bloody going to if you keep saying things like that."

"Oh, do hush, Crowley. You're going to have to toughen up a bit if a little proposition like that is enough to discorporate you."

Crowley opened and closed his mouth a few times, but nothing came out. Finally confessing his feelings to Aziraphale had, he realised far, far too late, been like handing over the keys to an arsenal of Crowley-obliterating weaponry. Their ancient, gentle war of one-upmanship and snide remarks had escalated straight to mutually assured destruction. 

At least it would be a pleasant way to go.

"As I was saying," Aziraphale continued, considerably redder in the face, "This isn't much of anything, ritual wise. Not much more than putting on one of those little charms of affection people used to be so fond of. The momentous thing, you see, is the fact that you can never take it off."

"Right," Crowley said.

He wondered if Aziraphale was having second thoughts. He was still occupied with his first ones, namely that Aziraphale had laid down next to him on a bed and suggested calmly that they bind their souls together for eternity. Getting past all that was going to take a while. Even when he did, Crowley wasn't sure he could think of anything other than  _ 'yes, please, if you'll have me' _ .

When Aziraphale raised a hand to stroke his cheek gently, so gently, Crowley somehow felt it all the way down to the blackened thing at his core.

"We don't have to, angel," he said, noticing the tears gathering at the corners of Aziraphale's eyes. "We don't  _ need _ to. It won't make any difference to me."

"My darling, if I was honest with myself I would have asked you this a long time ago." Aziraphale smiled, blinking away his tears. "Crowley, will you be mine?"

"Yes. Always."

_ Always have been _ , he meant,  _ always will be _ .

And then Aziraphale, beaming like a miniature sun, moved his hand to the centre of Crowley's chest and pushed, ever so slightly. A little piece of something bright and warm and lovely lodged there, just behind his ribs; it warmed him from within, an ember in a cold iron grate. He had been right before: they were oil and water, they would never mix and blend, becoming one united creature. But that meant the piece of Aziraphale glowing in his chest would stay forever beautiful, forever perfect. A piece of his angel to carry with him until the universe cooled into nothingness. 

He grinned. It was hard not to.

Aziraphale moved his hand away, and a piece of Crowley went with him, a moth drawn into the flame on silky black wings. He felt it flutter in Aziraphale's chest, felt it welcomed and cradled and loved. It was almost too much to bear...and then it wasn't.

Then he breathed in time with Aziraphale, felt their human hearts tap out the same slow rhythm, and it was just...nice. Normal, but better than normal.

"I told you it wasn't much of a thing," Aziraphale said, smiling knowingly.

"Oh, yeah. Totally. Dunno what all the fuss was about," Crowley agreed.

They lay there, hearts and souls finally on the same page after six thousand long years, until Crowley heard the telltale sound of Aziraphale's stomach rumbling.

"Am I keeping you from your dinner?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, it  _ is _ Christmas Day, I was rather looking forward to actually eating all that food I spent ages preparing."

Crowley snorted.

"Worked your fingers to the bone doing all those miracles, did you? Poor angel."

Aziraphale sidestepped the sarcasm with the practiced grace of six thousand years, and accepted Crowley's mock-sympathy at face value. 

"It's not easy designing a menu fit for the Son of God, Crowley. For his very first Christmas, no less!" 

He went a little misty-eyed at the thought of it, all of the foods he loved best spread out before the man who was all of Her love for Earth incarnate. 

"And apart from him, who's going to appreciate it?  _ Gabriel _ ?"

It was easy to picture the scene at the dinner table: angels half-heartedly picking at morsels of food while the archangels watched, daring each and every one of them to enjoy it. Crowley wondered what Heaven had in store for the first one to crack an accidental smile. Hell might sentence you to an eternity in the deepest put, but Heaven could make you rub Sandalphon's shoulders. Crowley suppressed a shudder and thought about things that didn't turn his stomach.

"Shall we, then?" he said.

Getting up off the bed, leaving the safe little bubble of his angel's love was harder than Crowley expected. But it was worth it for the smile on Aziraphale's face. He really was a ridiculous creature. Perfectly ridiculous. Crowley offered him his hand, the way he'd always wanted to. As their palms met the light of Aziraphale's essence inside him flared into life. Distantly, he felt an answering flutter of velvet-black joy in the angel's chest.

"Hell, angel. Is it always going to feel like that?" 

"I don't know," Aziraphale said, smiling softly, "I hope so." 

"I hope so, too."

***

"Well, this is unexpected," said Crowley, surveying what was left of the Christmas feast. Aziraphale nodded, speechless.

The table had been thoroughly picked clean, although 'clean' was hardly an apt description for the wreckage of two dozen first-time eaters who were learning their way around a knife and fork, possibly while blindfolded. Somehow, there were green beans stuck to the ceiling. Angels and archangels alike drowsed happily in a pile of cushions in the corner, all except for Gabriel, who was still seated at the right hand of Christ, scowling like a low-altitude thundercloud and losing terribly at Scrabble.

Aziraphale snuck a discreet look at the board and sucked a harsh little gulp of air in through his teeth.

"Is it bad?" asked Crowley.

"Our Lord and Saviour just played antidisestablishmentarianism."

"What?  _ How _ ?" 

"It appears to be an especially large board."

While Gabriel looked as if he was about two seconds away from punching someone, Jesus Christ was the picture of serenity. Crowley recognised that face. It was the one he used to quietly and peacefully drive people up the wall. Aziraphale had one of his own, although his was considerably more smug. Gabriel didn't have Crowley's experience of dealing with either expression and clearly wasn't handling it well. 

"Let's just...give them some space, shall we?" he said, watching Gabriel's fingertips leave dents in the tabletop. 

"Excellent idea, my dear. I haven't seen Gabriel this angry since...well. You remember, you were there."

"Yeah. Hard to forget." Crowley shuddered, recalling the chill winds of the cresting apocalypse blowing through him like tissue paper. Still, even with the leaden weight of the whole world on his conscience, that memory was easier to stomach than the white, echoing halls of heaven. If Gabriel had been angry on the wet asphalt of Tadfield airbase, he had been  _ murderous _ on his home turf.

"Oh dear." Aziraphale muttered, as the plastic of the table began to creak under Gabriel's fingers. "Unless he shouts at someone soon he might explode. There won't be much left of Swindon after that."

"Welp. No great loss there, but I can't say I feel like being his personal lightning rod. Reckon we can slip out before anyone notices?"

Aziraphale nodded imperceptibly and began to back away, slowly shuffling towards the door. Crowley followed suit, calling on a superhuman degree of effort to keep his gait slow and smooth. It should have worked - Crowley could, after all, be extraordinarily sneaky when he wanted to be - if it wasn't for the sad, stringy potted plant by the doorway. The thing was trying it's best, but after years of neglect under the dead fluorescent lights it had had enough. Maybe it was the compost ground into Crowley's cuticles or the pollen still clinging to his jeans that made it reach out with one withered little branch, but it worked. The plant earned itself more attention in five seconds than it had had in the last five years when Crowley knocked it over with a resounding clatter.

"Crowley! Aziraphale! You're back!" Jesus Christ said, smiling beatifically. "Please, you must join us. We have two thousand years' worth of catching up to do."

"Yes," Gabriel growled, " _ do join us _ ."

Crowley and Aziraphale winced in unison as the table finally gave way under Gabriel's fingertips with a sharp crack, leaving the archangel with a handful of plastic dust and a slightly embarrassed look on his stupidly handsome face. 

"Well, so much for a quick exit," Crowley muttered, reaching down to set the plant back upright. "And don't think I didn't see what you did either, you attention-seeking little bastard," he hissed at it, under his breath. "After this, I'm going to teach you some  _ manners _ ."

The plant shivered a little in response, and began to wonder down in its green, slow-moving approximation of a mind if it had made a terrible mistake. It would learn, later, after being smuggled into the boot of a shiny black car and deposited roughly amongst the greenest, glossiest, most terrified plants on Earth, that it really,  _ really _ had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back! I know this is a Christmas thing but hey, let's finish this thing. No schedule or anything (this is taking a long time to write but I hope you'll stick with me)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Merry Christmas!~~  
>  ~~Happy New Year!~~  
>  ~~Happy Easter!~~  
>  Hooray, this is finally finished! Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to keep working on this, it's been a slog but it's only 3 and a half months late so wahoo!

A certain level of tension around the Christmas dinner table was to be expected, an inevitable consequence of putting a load of estranged relatives in one room and filling them up with brussel sprouts and cheap prosecco. Everyone has an uncle who makes an ass out of himself when he’s had too much to drink or a grandmother who’s just a little bit racist. It wasn’t traditional, however, to sit down and have a bit of an after-dinner chat with your would-be executioner. 

Before the whole soul-bonding bit, Aziraphale’s anxiety had just been visible on his face and in the way he held himself almost painfully still. Now, though, Crowley could feel his panic rising through their connection, thrumming like a violin string under too much tension. In return, the angel had to be feeling some of the deep, roiling fury that Crowley felt every time he looked at Gabriel’s big stupid face. 

Under the table, Aziraphale squeezed his hand sweatily. 

"So, Aziraphale. You were gone a long time," said Gabriel, with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "I can't imagine what you could've been up to."

"Erm, yes." Aziraphale straightened up, gathered his courage and continued. "I went to check on Crowley, actually. In spite of your attempts to coerce me into staying, I couldn't just let him go after such awful treatment."

Across the table, Gabriel's scowl deepened. Crowley carefully schooled his expression to one of smug satisfaction.

"Did Uriel not deliver our apologies?" asked Jesus, innocently. "Michael's good at a lot of things, but she's not the best at being humble. I thought Uriel might be a better candidate."

"Oh yeah, they found me. Can't say I got the apology, but we had a nice little chat," said Crowley, fixing Gabriel with the kind of unblinking gaze only a snake could manage.

The archangel was squirming in his seat, boiling with barely contained rage that had absolutely no outlet with Jesus Christ himself sitting at his elbow. 

Crowley took the opportunity to smile at him, nastily, showing an inhuman amount of teeth.

"My lord, you can't seriously expect an archangel to apologize to this...creature, can you? It's not as though it has feelings!" 

Gabriel's nervous laugh did nothing to dispel the air of cold disapproval radiating from the son of God. It was honestly rather impressive, in Crowley's opinion, that a man with such a kind and unassuming face could manage to channel his mother's divine judgement so well. Looking at him almost made Crowley break a six thousand year old habit and drop to his knees in supplication.

"Archangel Gabriel," said Jesus, "did I not say that you should love your enemy? I don't know how I could be any clearer."

"Yes, but. To them, surely? The humans?" said Gabriel, flashing his biggest, brightest fake smile. "I'm all for humans forgiving other humans, that's just good business! Can't have them going around killing each other over a stolen cow or two, can we? But we can't go around apologising to _demons_. I mean, has the whole world gone mad?"

The silence that followed was deafening. It was long enough that Crowley had to fight his innate instinct to fill it with something sarcastic or ridiculous. But millisecond glance from Jesus Christ, filled with all the warm amusement Crowley remembered from their evenings spent drinking all those thousands of years ago, made the words die in his throat.

"Er," said Gabriel, after an eternity. "Well. I suppose I'm sorry then. I'm sorry the, uh, demon feels he's been treated unfairly. Now, if you'll excuse me, my lord, I think it's time I roused the troops."

Gabriel hastily got to his feet and marched off toward the slumbering angels. The poor things were in for quite a shock as Gabriel delivered the very first rude awakening of their existence, summoning a trumpet from somewhere and blasting a loud rendition of the reveille. It backfired slightly, much to Crowley's amusement, when Michael shot to a standing position seemingly on pure instinct and kicked him hard in the shins. 

"Are you alright?" asked Jesus, as Crowley struggled to stop laughing long enough to actually breathe.

"He's fine," said Aziraphale fondly, picking discreetly at an abandoned portion of Christmas pudding while Crowley quietly hyperventilated. 

"So, Aziraphale. Do tell me all about how you met Crowley, I've been dying to know."

There was a twinkle in Jesus's eye that Crowley knew all too well, one that innocently spelt trouble with a capital "who, me?"

"Oh, well, you see, I was assigned to keep an eye on your great, great, great, great, ah...too many greats to go into really, grandparents. Or, I suppose grandparents on one side, eh?"

The Son of God nodded, politely ignoring the rasping noise of Crowley desperately trying to get his breath back.

"And Crowley, here, well. I suppose I took my eye off the ball for a fraction of a second because he got up to some mischief, let me tell you, a very wily serpent indeed, he was."

"Angel," gasped Crowley, completely unheeded. 

"Do go on," said Jesus.

"But completely unlike any creature I have ever met, before or since. Fascinating and quick and kind, and so wonderfully clever. Not what I'd expected of a demon at all. We have known one another for six thousand years now, and he has never ceased to surprise me."

" _Angel_ ," said Crowley, louder this time. "He's _heard_ all of this from me already. Don't talk his ear off."

"Of course. Sorry, my dear."

Aziraphale didn't look sorry in the slightest. His expression could best be described as fond amusement with a dash of smug bastard. Crowley's face had gone red, he could feel it, but that didn't mean he had to acknowledge it.

"Anyway, this party is awful." Crowley pointed to the angels, who were now doing unhappy star jumps under Gabriel's instruction. "That lot wouldn't know fun if you hit them in the face with it. No music, no dancing, not even so much as a bloody disco ball."

"Angels don't dance, Crowley," said Aziraphale, "or at least not as a rule. I can't picture Gabriel doing the 'mashed potato', can you?"

Crowley did picture it and then wished he hadn't.

"Demons dance, though, don't they? If memory serves they dance rather a lot if you ply them with enough wine." 

Jesus was radiating satisfied amusement, but he was almost eclipsed by the sheer joy pouring out of Aziraphale. 

"Really? Now, isn't that interesting! I can't say I recall seeing you dance, my dear. I think we'll need to rectify that immediately."

With a snap of the angel's fingers, a gramophone appeared in the corner of the room. It was playing some kind of waltz, something so dusty and utterly unhip it practically made Crowley's legs detach in sympathy. Groaning deeply, he put his head in his hands and sank down onto the table. 

"I'm not drunk enough for this," he groaned. "You're both awful. I'm going to murder everyone here and then myself."

"Of course, of course," said Aziraphale, stroking his back soothingly. "But would you do me the honour of this dance before all the bloodshed starts?"

"No."

"Please, dear?"

"Not a bloody chance."

He could feel the angel pouting. He didn't need a soul bond to know that Aziraphale was doing _that face_ : the wide-eyed, innocently devious one that would make Crowley do anything he asked as well as several things he hadn't even thought of yet. 

"Actually, before all the dancing starts, I was hoping Crowley could do me a small favour," said Jesus, who Crowley, in the depths of his melodramatic sulk, had temporarily forgotten about.

"What favour could _you_ possibly need?" He asked.

Back when Crowley had first known the Son of God, the man had been selfless to a fault. Even surrounded by an entourage of followers large enough to make a celebrity starlet green with envy, Jesus wouldn't ask them for anything. They were practically falling over themselves to wash his feet or comb his beard anyway, but Crowley hadn't been able to tempt him into even a mild abuse of all that delicious power. He wouldn't even send Paul out for milk when they ran out. The selfless bugger would go himself and come back with more milk than he could carry. The annoying thing was that you couldn't even sense him manipulating people, because as far as Crowley could tell, he wasn't. People just wanted to do things for him. Infuriating.

It was made worse by the fact that Crowley also wanted to do things for him. He couldn't help it. He _liked_ the man.

"This party is wonderful, really, more than I could have expected, but it's hardly inclusive. From what I've heard, Christmas is a time for all the family to gather together in celebration."

Crowley's throat was suddenly very dry.

"You can't be serious." 

"I'm absolutely serious. Is this not the perfect time to reach out to our estranged cousins?" 

"Speaking as one of them," said Crowley, "no. Nope. Nuh-uh."

"And I was thinking," Jesus continued, as if Crowley hadn't said anything, "that you might be able to get an invitation to them. I'm sure they'd love to join us. They can give us all some dancing lessons."

"They'll rip each other to pieces is what they'll do."

"I'm sure I can convince them to get along."

He probably could, too. But if he failed, the poor, godforsaken hotel employees would be cleaning bits of angel and demon out of the carpet for weeks.

Crowley opened his mouth to say as much, but stopped when Aziraphale placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"I think we should do as he asks, Crowley. Don't you think he probably knows what he's doing? What with being the almighty incarnate and all that?"

"He's a sneaky bastard with no sense of self preservation," Crowley shot back. 

"Crowley!"

"Alright, _alright_. You want me to tip them off, don't you?"

Jesus nodded. 

"They won't want to hear from me, you realise that? If I call they'll put me on hold for the rest of eternity."

In a rather short-sighted move, Crowley had suggested the idea of hold music in the late 60s. Hell had taken to it like a very single minded duck to water, and hadn't updated their repertoire of tunes in over 30 years. All of them were just a few notes either side of a recognisable tune, while simultaneously lingering in the mind like a bad smell. Every one was composed in midi by Crowley himself. 

The last time he'd been put on hold it had been for a week, and he'd hummed the same little melody for months until Aziraphale snapped at him to cut it out.

"I have a feeling they won't, this time," said Jesus, smiling faintly as if he knew something everyone else didn't.

For his part, Crowley knew better than to argue. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and disentangled himself from Aziraphale's fussing hands. 

"Do you want me to come with you?" The angel asked, suddenly all protectiveness and concern now that the ramifications of a call to Hell were dawning on him.

"Nah. I'll be fine. Right? I'll use the phone in reception. Give a fake name."

He nodded at Jesus, who nodded in reply.

"I personally guarantee it."

"Oh, well. In that case, I'll see you in a little bit, my dear."

To Crowley's surprise Aziraphale stood up, pulled him into a tight hug, and then kissed him nervously on the cheek.

"For good luck," he explained.

If Gabriel or the other angels were watching, neither of them paid them the slightest bit of notice. Crowley cleared his throat and decided to figure out how far he could push his newly bestowed luck.

"I could use a bit more, actually. Not traditionally lucky, me."

Aziraphale kissed him on the other cheek, and then very briefly on the lips, just a brush of angelic softness that left his mouth tingling at the memory.

"I think you're very lucky indeed," Aziraphale said, sitting back down again with a self-satisfied smile.

Crowley turned sharply and sauntered off toward the hotel lobby before he did anything that might embarrass himself, such as stammering or hissing or turning as red as the collar of his jacket. He was fairly sure he was going to do that anyway, but at least he'd do it where nobody could see.

It was dark out in the hallway, and darker still in the silent foyer with its outdated semi-circular desk and early 2000's computer. There was an uncomfortable-looking rolly-chair behind it, worn into flattened submission by decades of use, so Crowley plonked himself down on it and propped his feet up on the desk. It was somehow even more uncomfortable than it looked. The back was curved in completely the wrong places to support a human spine, the fabric was simultaneously greasy and itchy, and the thing protested louder than Aziraphale's ancient computer when Crowley put his weight on it. On a whim, he rolled it back and forth a little. As predicted, one wheel was jammed. In different times, it would've found itself snapped down to Hell's torture department wrapped up with a big red bow. Now, though, Crowley just suppressed an evil little smile and forced it to recline even further.

Everything on the desk had the slight film of grime and dust that came of a half-dozen underpaid employees sharing the same workspace, so Crowley gave the telephone earpiece a good long wipe on his jacket sleeve before he put it anywhere near his face. With a shaking finger, he dialed the number he'd been told, under no uncertain circumstances, to never call again. Surprisingly, the thing that passed for a phone at the other end began to ring. 

"'Ello, Dagon's office. Eric at your disservice."

The voice was tinny with the mechanical feedback of a phone line that passed through spheres of existence hot enough to melt telephone poles and cold enough to freeze electrons solid. It was a miracle that it worked at all, but it was somehow even more impressive that the person on the other end of the line didn't seem to know who Crowley was. Every time Crowley had called in before, the imp on the desk had been telling him to fuck himself with the telephone handset before he'd even opened his mouth.

"Er." Said Crowley. 

"Terrible line, mate. Say again?"

"What happened to the usual guy? Red complexion, swears a lot."

"Oh, he's been promoted, the lucky bastard. Gets to clean the fungus out of the boss's scales, can you believe it? I'm filling in.

On the other end of the phone, Crowley made a face.

"Anyways, how can I inconvenience you today?"

"Right. Yeah. Got a tipoff, a information that might be of interest to the lower downs, if you catch my drift."

"Ooooh, brilliant! I'll just get a pen.

There was the sound of rummaging, and of several small objects clattering to the floor.

"Can't find one, there's never one when you need one, is there? I'll just have to hope nobody kills me before I can pass the message on! Ahaha!"

"Yeah, alright, just listen carefully, would you? I'm not saying this twice."

"Go for it, Mr…"

"Krampus," said Crowley, thinking on his feet, "Imp second class. There's a gathering of angels happening in the town of Swindon on Earth, alright? I was up here adding more speed bumps to the roads and the whole lot of them just breezed right by me."

"Really? They never did."

"Yeah. Satan's own truth. Breezed right into some hotel just off the ring road."

"Alright. So what?" The demon said, "is that it? Sorry mate, but that's not all that interesting."

"Not interesting?" Snapped Crowley, who was sorely tempted to zip down the phone line and slap the idiot receptionist on the back of the head. "I saw that prick Gabriel with them, is that interesting enough for you? Down on Earth where anyone could kick his perfect bloody teeth in with no fear of divine retribution?"

Down in Hell, the receptionist demon dropped the telephone and then scrambled to retrieve it.

"Right, gotcha. I'll, uh, tell Dagon straight away," they said, a little breathlessly. 

"Yeah, I would if I were you."

"You sure you're an imp, mate? You're pretty scary for an imp."

In his desk chair on Earth, Crowley ran a forked tongue across one wickedly sharp canine.

"I've been taking classes. Better run along, hadn't you? Oh, and make sure to ask the big D to send up the forgemaster, whatever their name is. Old iron-balls. Face like they've been sticking their head in a furnace."

"Hephesia? Are you nuts? They don't leave the forge, like, ever."

"They'll want to, for this. Trussst me."

Crowley hung up with a satisfying click and leaned back even further into a comfortable sprawl. It was, without a doubt, the best call he'd ever made to Hell. It remained so even after the office chair finally betrayed him and tipped over backwards. After all, the only witness was a small, desiccated-looking cactus and it certainly wasn't going to tell anyone. When Crowley had finished adjusting his clothes and removing every speck of carpet fluff from his jacket, he headed back to the conference center with an extra swagger in his step.

As he pushed the double doors open, Crowley was met with the sound of Aziraphale giving someone a vigorous talking to. A wave of nauseating tension hit hit him just after the sound, humming through their soul connection like it was being plucked by an amateur violinist. The angel's finger was square in the centre of Gabriel's chest and he was standing so unnaturally straight that Crowley could practically hear his waistcoat buttons straining. 

"Honestly Gabriel, I couldn't give a..a _fig_ what you do for the rest of the evening! After the way you've treated us all day! The way you treated Crowley! You…you...It is just so _typical_ of you all to just expect me to solve all of your bloody problems and I am. Not. Doing it. Anymore!"

Every little jab to Gabriel's sternum sent up a flare of pride inside Crowley's chest. He hoped Aziraphale could feel them. He also hoped the angel would calm down before Gabriel took a swing at him and forced Crowley to do something very stupid indeed. Aziraphale seemed to come to his senses when he noticed Crowley edging slowly towards him, and removed the finger gingerly.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to dance with my beloved, because it's Christmas and I want to."

He turned towards Jesus, who had been standing off to one side, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

"I do apologize for all that," he said, wringing his hands as the realisation dawned that he'd just had an emotional meltdown in front of the Son of God. "I'm afraid it's been rather a long day. I do hope you won't be offended if I retire from party planning for the remainder of the evening?"

"Not at all. I think you've earned it."

"Oh, good. Thank you so very much. Now, if you'll excuse me."

With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale set a different tune playing on the ancient gramophone. It was something soft and slow and undeniably romantic. When the angel took his hand, Crowley couldn't quite remember how to walk, let alone dance. But that was perfectly fine with Aziraphale, who wrapped an arm around his waist and held him tightly. The other hand was shaking even as Aziraphale led them round in aimless, lazy circles. For his part, Crowley dimmed the lights to something more dance-appropriate, leaning in close to rest his head gently against Aziraphale's.

"Crowley, I think I'm having a panic attack."

Crowley squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"No, you're not, angel."

"Are you sure? I can't breathe and I feel all hot. Oh God, why did I do that? Why did I _shout_ at an _Archangel_? Why didn't you stop me?"

"You're talking a lot for someone who can't breathe," said Crowley.

Aziraphale deliberately trod on his foot.

"Take this seriously, please."

"Angel, you did it because he deserved it. And because you're brilliant. Don't you dare regret telling that pompous wanker where to shove it."

"But. But I-"

"I love you, Aziraphale. Dance with me, please? Panic when we get home."

"Yes...I suppose I can do that."

And so they swayed together, turning awkward little circles in the corner of the room to a tune that had been out of fashion for a century. As first dances went, it was absolutely perfect.

Crowley supposed there must have been other things happening in the room, but with his eyes closed and his cheek pressed up against Aziraphale's neck, he would've been hard pressed to say what they were. The music had changed a few times, but the dance had stayed the same. He was lost completely in the warm glow of his angel's affection until the spell was broken by the sound of something heavy landing on the conference center roof.

"Uh oh."

"What is it?" 

"We've gotta go, angel. Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Sounds like they've decided to make an entrance."

"Oh dear, right you are."

Crowley made a beeline for the door, pushing past a few mystified angels who were frowning at the ceiling and dragging Aziraphale along with him. On his way out, he miracled the half-dead plant by the doorway into the boot of the Bentley. They were out of the room before the first of the flies came buzzing down the chimney. 

"Oughtn't we say goodbye to the guest of honour?" said Aziraphale, breathlessly, as Crowley steered him down the corridor. 

"No time. He'll understand."

"Only it seems awfully rude…"

"Angel, remember what they do to people who are in the _wrong place_ at the _wrong time_."

"Good point, let's go. Chop chop!"

Since they'd been inside, snow had begun to fall. It was thick flakes, a swirling wall of white that turned to grey slush as soon as it hit the wet tarmac. 

"Look, it's a white Christmas!" said Aziraphale, somewhat manically. 

And Crowley had to admit that the snow was beautiful, even falling on a place like this. It filled the potholes with icy water that splashed over the tops of Crowley's boots and turned the Bentley into an indistinct white lump. But in the air, it was magic. Freezing cold, horribly wet magic.

"In the car, angel, in the car _now_ ," stammered Crowley, teeth chattering. 

He bundled Aziraphale into the passenger's seat with one hand and banished every speck of snow from his precious car with a wave of the other.

"Holy bollocksing Heaven, it's freezing," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. 

"Yes, it is."

Aziraphale was smiling madly, eyes sparkling in the soft moonlight. 

"This was fun," he said.

"It was not _fun_."

"Yes it was, Crowley. Just think about what's going on in there right now. Nobody even noticed us leaving."

"Not. Fun," said Crowley, starting the engine. 

He'd lost this one. He knew it, Aziraphale knew it. Somehow, with the angel beaming happily beside him as they wound their way through the streets of Swindon, it didn't matter.

They'd be home soon, drinking Aziraphale's oldest wine, getting drunk and handsy and enjoying what was left of their first Christmas together. It would be the first of many.

And if there was a card waiting for them when they got back to the bookshop, with a gold menorah on the front and a signature inside that was unreadable to the human eye, nobody else needed to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to my wonderful beta mostlyharmless <3


End file.
